Where's Chad?

Just about every morning, I hit a little tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that's about a block away from my house. They serve a pretty decent cup of donut shop coffee and I've become friendly with the owner operator Mr Kong. I call him sir and he calls me young lady. It's one of the highlights of my day.

He's an interesting fellow but very unpredictable, some days he thrusts my coffee into my hands without so much as a word, other days he can go on and on and on about his thoughts on any number of subjects.

Some of the more interesting points he's made :

• Women don't watch sports, only talk shows.
• Your sister should not get back surgery, but instead go to Chinatown for a 3 hour massage.
• The building owner should stop raising the rent, otherwise no more coffee.
• Why do you wear the same sweatpants every day?

But yesterday was the cherry on the cake. Most days I go through the drive though, and most days it only takes him 3-5 minutes to realize I'm sitting there and he get's me my coffee and either talks to me or doesn't.  Yesterday though, I sat and I waited and waited some more. After craning my neck I could tell that he was in a heated discussion with someone about god only knows, perhaps they discovered a woman who dislikes talk shows and watches sports.....

Anyway after probably 7 minutes, I could take no more so I parked the car and in I walked ready to give good ol' Mr K the business. As I entered the little cramped building, I saw there were 3 other older gentlemen surrounding Mr K and they were all shaking their heads in confusion. That's when Mr K noticed me.

"Oh I'm sorry I didn't see you there, we can't find Chad!" Mr K exclaims in a pretty frantic voice.

"Who's Chad?" Oh shit, I'm thinking someone lost their grandson.

"No Chad!  Chad! The country we can't find Chad!" That's when I see they are all standing around a world map.

Well that explains the confusion I guess, that and the fact that they were scrutinizing South America.

"Mr K, Chad is in Africa" and that's when he elbowed one of the men aside and drumming his bony finger on the map said "Show me." So I opened the map to show him Africa and pointed to Chad.  "Young lady, your coffee is free today!"

Chad (Arabic: تشاد‎ Tšād; French: Tchad ⁱ/ˈtʃæd/), officially the Republic of Chad, is a landlocked country inCentral Africa. It is bordered by Libya to the north, Sudan to the east, the Central African Republic to the south,Cameroon and Nigeria to the southwest, and Niger to the west.

Who Doesn't Love Tube Socks?

It’s August. I know this by the skyrocketing temperatures; by the way the Yankees are plummeting in the American League rankings and by the assault of Back to School ads on television. Clothes, shoes, back packs and supplies. When I was a kid supplies meant some loose leaf paper, a couple notebooks, assorted writing utensils and a pack of those pink erasers that fit over the top of a pencil’s already built in eraser. Now supplies means laptops and tablets and phones oh my!

Yep the dog days of summer, when every kid is trying to squeeze in as much fun as they can before school starts again. One of the rituals for this period of the calendar is back to school shopping. For some this was a real treat, for others not so much.

Like my older brothers and sister before me my parents opted to pony up a couple hundred bucks a year for private catholic school for grades one through eight. This decision made them feel good about themselves for a couple of reasons. 

• The smaller class sizes and stricter environment would result in a sounder education.  If this were the case I probably wouldn't be wondering if sounder was an actual word.
• The religious education imparted would augment my good Catholic upbringing. (Shaaah, as if?)

And there was a third benefit that my parents would never cop to. The savings on school clothes as we Catholics were required to wear uniforms. So each year my friends that attended public school got to go with their moms to the “big city” (pop. 20,000) an hour away where they would visit the mall, have lunch and pick out clothes. My shopping adventure was much less exciting.

Instead, my mom would send me downtown, on foot, to Cook & Sacco, our local and only “clothier”.  The store was probably half mile away right in the heart of a non-booming metropolis in Upstate NY.  It was a lovely store, and now the  smell of new clothes always brings me back to my childhood shopping “sprees” at Cook & Sacco. Once inside, Mrs. Sacco would first award me with a cherry lollipop then measure me from top to bottom all while prattling on about how tall I’d grown this year. Then she would go in the back and retrieve 2 new plaid jumpers and 2 button-down blouses one long sleeve, one short and that was that. 

Mr. Sacco worked the register, to this day whenever I smell a cigar, I think of him as he was constantly chewing on the end of a pungent stogie. He’d box up my new belongings with a wink and a smile, have me sign for the purchase made on store credit and send me on my way, but not before slipping me one more “don’t tell your folks or Dr Brennan D.D.S” lollipop.

BUT, the shopping wasn’t fully complete until I had new shoes, so yes I did indeed get to take a trip to the big city. Mom and I would pile in the car and time our arrival for just before noon, where she would treat me to a terrific lunch at the Yum Yum Tree. The Yum Yum Tree was basically a hot dog cart, but I loved the taste of those delicious dogs plucked off the rotating warmer. Then it was off to Thom McCann so I could pick out a pair of sensible faux suede shoes AND two packs of tube socks.

BOOM. Shopping complete.

Play Ball Part 2: Dodger Fans Can You Please Pull it Together?

You know what really grinds my gears? Shitty fans. This is something that has bothered me for some time, it's a real pet peeve and I'm going to use this post to deliver this message to the tens of people who read my blog :)

Side note to the tens of people who read my blog, I am forever grateful for your support...but I digress.

I attended last night's sellout game at Dodger Stadium, and between balmy evening air, the icy cold beer, the back drop of the mountains majestically surrounding Chavez Ravine, the pre-game tribute to Mariano Rivera and the effortless save that he delivered in the bottom of the 9th, it was an almost perfect night. Almost.

The game, a pitchers duel, was tied up nothing, nothing at the top of the 9th, the Yankees had 2 outs and were sitting at the weakest part of their batting order. Overbay, bloopers a single to center sending Cano home.. and then it started. 

What had been friendly mutual ribbing the whole night suddenly turned sour. Instead of fans cheering on their own team they started turning on the opposing team and their fans. 

"You guys are still in 4th place!" said one disgruntled Dodger fan again and again and again.

"You know, you're still not making the playoffs!" said another. "Yankees Suck!" chants started echoing, louder and more impassioned than the earlier "Let's Go Dodgers!!" chants from the exact same fans.

Then Nix, the bane of my Yankee existence comes up to bat and flys to right field, an easy out everyone thought but after a communication error between Puig and Ellis results in a dropped ball, 2 more runners score and it's 3 zip. The crowd turned absolutely wretched and still more "Yankees Suck" ...Pardon me but was it not the Dodgers that just bumbled this last inning resulting in my team taking the lead? I'm no coach, or ESPN analyst but that's certainly how I saw that inning play out.

And the cherry on the cake, in the bottom of the 9th when the most celebrated closer of all time, one of the classiest, and most humble athletes in baseball if not in all sports who was honored on this very field this very evening approaches the mound to a choir of Dodger "fans" booing. You must be kidding me.

To those of you that say things like "X team sucks" and boo the great players if they are not on your team I say this. Shame on you! When I watch games in The House that Ruth Built, I welcome the opposing team and their fans, because without them we're just a bunch of knuckleheads sitting around paying $17 bucks for a beer and watching our team have batting practice.

Play Ball!

How can you not be romantic about baseball? What's not to love? The crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, an ice cold beer on a hot July afternoon, a pitchers duel, a walk-off home run and watching players who love playing as much as I love watching. It's all of these things and more that make Baseball a true American past time and while other sports have their place, certainly baseball has earned it's spot at the top of my list.

While I am a loyal and diehard NY Yankees fan and will stick with them through the good and the bad there are so many things about other clubs that I admire and think the sport is better for: Vin Scully, Wrigley Field, Donnie Baseball, Cal Ripkin Jr, the new generation of stars like Trout and Puig, and the journeymen that consistently deliver for their teams like Raul Ibanez to name a few.

Which brings me to my next point the Bronx Bombers. Love 'em or hate 'em you have to admit there's a reason they are the most storied franchise in baseball history and tonight at Chavez Ravine one of the most celebrated Yankees, Mariano Rivera, will be honored by the Los Angeles Dodgers. Bravo Mariano for a career focused on baseball, excellence and determination. Lots of folks didn't expect you to come back after last season, but you showed us all what kind of athlete and talent you are. Bravo.

I'll be there tonight, wearing my Yankees jersey, drinking up a piece of  history and hollering for my team. Thanks Mo for your commitment and for all you've done for the Yankees and the sport of baseball. Bravo.

.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q00SDdC7z3k

VEGAS BABY! VEGAS!!

It was 2010 and one of my nearest and dearest Kelly (along with her twin sister) was turning 30 and so obviously we went to sin city to celebrate. Obviously.

The trip was full of hilarity, debauchery, some law enforcement muckety muck, and a load of great memories (some fuzzier than others) but I learned one thing for sure, what happens in Vegas does not necessarily stay in Vegas.

Exhibit A: The birth of The Unsolicited High 5 aka The Unsoli Club

The birthday main event was Saturday night so on Friday my co-conspirator Britt and I head downtown to see what kind of trouble we can drum up.  As the night is really getting rolling (read: lots of Elvis sightings, a sick Styx cover band, Paul Stanley photo ops and plenty of cheap whiskey) we decide to cool our jets at the 4 Queens Casino and see if luck would in fact be a lady tonight. Britt tries her hand at Roulette and I find a $10 Black Jack table with a toothless dealer named Benny. 

Inside of 15 minutes we’re both about $300 lighter and pouting. Lady Luck, you can suck it. 

"I'm telling you baby, you always double down on an eleven" 

As we make our way to the bar, Britt drops a coin into the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, Joker! Joker! Joker! or something to that effect because she scored $30 bucks and starts wildly High Fiving anyone with hands. That looked fun. The High Five part, not the slot machine part. As I leave Britt at the slots and head to the bar solo I begin randomly offering up High Fives to every person between me and my destination, sometimes accompanied with an “Up High” or a “High 5” and every person who I offered it to, hit me back. Suddenly I didn’t care about the three hundo I had just gifted to the 4 Queens and decide this was more fun and FAR cheaper than gambling.

About 30 minutes later Britt re-emerges dejected after losing her winnings and another Benjamin on top of that and she’s ready to gun Bacardi and diets like tomorrow isn’t ever coming.  I tell her about The Unsolicited High 5 and since she’s a gamer we make it a competition. To make it interesting we whip up a set of rules and point values.

The idea is simple, walk up to any stranger and offer a High 5 or a High 10.

• 5 points for every High 5 Hit Back
• 10 points for a High 10 Hit Back aka "Double Fives"
• Double points if the person has to set their drink down to facilitate the Hit Back.
• Loss of similar points for a rejected Hit Back aka a “Hanger”
• Spotting: This is when your competitor points out a target they think might be a Hanger. These tend to be old ladies and some foreigners. These are considered High Value Targets. For example if I spot Britt an old lady and she goes for the High 5 and is left hanging not only does Britt lose points, but I am awarded her lost points. HOWEVER if I spot her an old lady and she goes for the High 5 and gets the Hit Back she gets the points and I lose the same point value.

Vegas is obviously the best place to really rack up the points, because if you sell it like you just won a new Chrysler well then what sane person can resist the hit back?

I am happy to report that The Unsoli Club has expanded into other markets and is thriving in Southern California. For information on starting your own charter, a full set of bylaws, the list of Elders and Tribunal Requirements, send me a message and I’ll connect you with our Traveling Secretary, Steven Vince.

Walk Softly and Carry an Armored Tank Division I Always Say

 In 2009 I was the head of marketing for a small software publishing company and together with the heads of sales and business development we had been courting, cajoling and all out begging a leading tax preparation service to let us be their partner in the software aisle.  The target of our efforts was a woman, I’ll call her Jane, who was known in our industry as a real hard ass. After months of calls, emails, networking and more begging, we got a short note from her.

“You can take me and my associate to dinner one week from today at 7PM sharp and then you have 30 minutes to pitch us the next day. In the meantime stop calling me.”  All righty then, I guess we’re getting on a plane.

We huddled and planned our attack down to the last detail even convincing the CEO of our parent company to fly to Kansas City for dinner.  As we pre-gamed at the hotel our fearless leader gave us sage direction. “Keep your shit together and close this god damned deal!” …Why didn’t I think of that?

At 6:50 we arrive at the restaurant of Jane's choosing.  It was a dark, dank, rickety joint that smelled of cigarette smoke, urine and glue. Certainly not how a midwest steakhouse should smell, but I thought maybe this is just one of those under-the-radar, crusty local joints that can get away with such things. When our targets arrive we head into the dingy, foul smelling dining room and the conversation, as my dad would put it is "flatter than a fart". 

My counterparts and I are enthusiastically volleying the conversational hot potato, acting like costumed animals in a 3 ring circus and Jane answers all our questions with pointed one word responses. Things were going nowhere fast.

With standard business protocol proving ineffective we employ our only remaining tactic, booze. We order bottle after bottle of the best wine on the limited menu and finally dragon lady starts to get loose.  In a matter of minutes she travels from barely speaking and sending looks that kill, to moderately enjoying herself, to falling off the proverbial cliff. She was pickled.  And not the let’s-have-fun-and-we’ll-laugh-about-it-tomorrow-pickled.  Nope, the Courtney Love kind of pickled.

After our meals were cleared away and after-dinner drinks are being finished I notice Jane has steak juice all down the front of her white sweater, which is certainly unfortunate, but that kind of thing happens, then much to my horror she starts dipping her napkin into her wine glass and blotting out the steak juice with her red wine.

I’m not familiar with this method of stain removal.

Her co-worker leans over and whispers something and off Jane goes in the direction of the ladies room, hopefully she’ll clean herself up, dust herself off and be blissfully unaware that we were any the wiser.  After a few minutes the check arrives and we settle up.  Then we wait, and wait some more. No one wanting to say out loud what we were each thinking. “Where the hell is the train wreck?” Tick tock, tick tock and after about 30 painful minutes, my CEO leans over and quietly says, “I’m sorry but you’re going to have to go in after her.”

Naturally.

I timidly enter the ladies room really not sure what I’ll find and that’s when I hear it, a noise behind one of the closed stall doors, it sounds like she’s on the ground rolling around in a pile of wadded up toilet seat covers.

Terrific.

I start making some noise over by the sinks hoping she’ll hear me and pull it together. No dice. Finally I say “Jane, we’re getting ready to go, shall we wait for you in the bar?” Rustle, rustle, rustle and then she emerges wild eyed and wobbly with wine, steak juice and god knows what else all over her lovely white sweater looking more like a cornered perp from the show COPS then a respected sales executive. She took one look at me and without a word or a visit to the sink hauled ass out of the restroom.

Classy.

Needless to say we never got the deal we went there to close, but in the end it didn’t matter. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I say it’s served best in a filthy heap on the ladies room floor.

Here's a Tip Fella, Don't Eat Yellow Snow

I read somewhere that Wales is Europe’s Florida. Since I’ve never been to Wales, I'm going to assume it’s awful. Florida has giant flying bugs, hurricanes, “I’m-with-stupid T-shirts”, meth and lots of reality TV in the making. 

People under the age of 60 only go to Florida if they like sporting the least fashionable Tommy Bahama beach wear available, enjoy a good deal on a steak as long as they are cool eating dinner at 3:45 or have parents that retired there. I fall squarely into bucket three and have spent more than my fair share of time in Florida.  By the time I was 17 my parents were fully retired and each September, they would hit the road and if we wanted to see them it meant trekking to the Sunshine State. Wheeeeeeeeeee.

Each year I visited, they would entertain me with one adventure or another that they were certain I could experience exclusively in Florida. Enormous swap meets, fishing charters, pizza joints with crusty dollar bills and enormous frilly bras tacked to the ceiling (mom and dad were so very progressive) and of course water aerobics. If it weren’t for mom and dad I never would have experienced “Sweating to the oldies” in a giant pool with a dozen 80 year olds. Thanks guys!

     

My visits to Florida were and still are some of my fondest memories. One of my most favorite adventures started out like any other routine day in Retiree-land. Up and out of the house early, running errands, doing chores, listening to my dad pass judgment on all of the other terrible drivers. “Sure dad, they suck, but you sir are still stellar.” Ahem, anyway after a morning of busyness dad was hungry and when the subject of lunch came up, he got that twinkle in his eye that he only gets when he’s about to share something that he thinks is pretty legit.

“I’ve got just the place!! Your mom and I stumbled on it a few years back, it’s the best deal in town. Burger, fries and drinks for 2 bucks and the best part is, YOU DON’T HAVE TO TIP!!! Boy was he ever pleased with himself.

To be fair my father is not a cheap man, however he is great at sniffing out deals and stretching those hard earned dollars, so off we go. When we pull into the Kmart parking lot, I’m confused. “Dad what’re we doing here?” It seemed like a reasonable question.

“Didn’t I just tell you we were going to lunch?” Dad’s sugar is low and clearly he’s getting fussy. Silly me for not knowing there was a restaurant inside of Kmart. Actually it wasn’t so much a restaurant as it was the Kmart employee cafeteria. Dad promptly clears up my confusion. “See it’s for the employees, but everyone’s allowed”. Terrific.

2 burgers, 2 orders of fries, 2 cokes. $4 dollars (no tip).  Dad proudly introducing me to the best lunch deal in town. Priceless.

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

My Italian heritage is one of the things of which I am most proud. My dad and his 3 three brothers chose their brides, settled down and raised their kids in a very small town in Upstate NY. 

(The 4 lucky ladies that chose to marry into this family. Mary P. Gijanto, Mary D. Gijanto, Mary C. Gijanto...are you noticing a trend here,...and Isabelle H. Gijanto...leave it to crazy Aunt Izzy to mix things up.)

In no time at all there were loads of Gijanto kids underfoot. Family functions were plentiful, we were always getting together at this house or that house for meals and celebrations of every sort. Weddings, Christenings, Holidays, Holy Days of Obligation, Birthdays, Mario Puzo movies, you name it we celebrated it. Whatever the occasion, the format was the same. The ladies in the kitchen drinking wine, cooking and bitching about their husbands, the men in the living room drinking beer, watching sports or playing cards, and the kids running around stirring the pot.

My cousin Ann and I were the last to come through the pipeline; she was 15 months older than me and as youngsters we were inseparable. Sleepovers at her house were especially fun because she never had a bedtime, her parents didn’t care how much candy we mainlined and no television shows were off limits.  As we entered elementary school she blossomed into a beautiful, popular and confident girl.

Me not so much. To say I was an ugly duckling was a huge understatement. I was more like the ugly duckling that got annihilated by a big rig on the Jersey Turnpike.

And she was better than I was at all the really important things; she could throw a ball much further than I, she rocked an impressive pony tail and oh how the Nuns at Saint Mary’s loved her.  I both idolized her and wanted to choke her. As my angst grew so did the frequency of our squabbles. Every time we had a cross word, I’d run and tell my mother who was a big help,  “if you can’t get along with your cousin don’t play with her, but I don’t want to hear about it, now be a lamb and go slice me a fresh lime for my gin and tonic.”  Thanks mom, you’re swell.

Things came to a head in 1979. School portraits had just been sent home and mine was a beaut, up on the wall in all her glory. Mom either had zero fashion sense or a wicked sense of humor because she sent me to be photographed that year sporting a beige ruffled tuxedo-style blouse, a maroon velvet blazer and a plaid skirt...and don't even get me started on my giant plastic glasses. I wasn’t particularly pleased with the picture but she made me feel better about it by saying “so you’re not particularly photogenic, that’s OK you’re good at other things like spelling and being nice to old people.” Again, thanks mom, you’re swell.

Ann and I were at my house one afternoon when her gaze fixed upon the picture. She looked at it puzzled for a few minutes, head cocked to one side as though she were deep in thought, then she said it. The words that shaped my confidence level from then on.

“You look just like Benjamin Franklin!!” she practically shouted.

Well sir, that was it! I don’t care how important of a man Ben Franklin was, no 3rd grade girl wants to be told she looks like him.  

I figured that even though my mom didn’t want to get in the middle of our squabbles, she would come in any minute and stick up for me and my fragile ego. That’s when I heard it. A high squeaking-choking-wheezing sound I’d never heard before and have never heard since. I popped around the corner to see what it was and there she was, good old mom, doubled over, clutching her sides, laughing her fool head off.

Apparently I did look just like Ben Franklin.

Goin' to the Chapel

When I was 20 I landed my first “real” job filing, collating invoices and general administrative what-not for a small video game distributor. The headquarters were housed in the basement of a quaint toy store called Duane’s Toyland in a shopping center in Albany NY. The job was fine, the pay was fine, the hours were fine and my boss was, well I suppose he was fine too. 

The only thing not fine about this set up was after a short time working there I realized that one of the stock boys from Duane’s was “sweet on me”.  I knew this because every time I wandered into the break room or the stock room, he magically appeared. At first it was small talk, he loved chatting about The Mets (obviously he was barking up the wrong tree) or some comic book convention he had just attended or “boy this is some weather we’re having”.  He was pretty smooth. I was polite but always brief in my interaction with him. Mark was his name, and he looked and acted like the prototype for Napoleon Dynamite.

And while he was a nice enough fellow I wasn’t interested, yet he pressed on. It became a cat and mouse game and every time I left my office chair, there he was, lurking in the hallway waiting for me. I gave up coffee so I could minimize bathroom breaks, but he found me anyway. I started packing my lunch so I wouldn’t run into him at the sandwich shop next door, but he found me anyway. And there was one place I couldn’t avoid him, the common stock room where each week I had to go and pull orders for customers who sold cassette tapes wholesale at swap meets in Boca Raton. 

And that’s where it happened. I snuck in early one morning to try and handle the task before the toy store opened.  I worked efficiently stuffing Michael Bolton and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam cassettes into padded envelopes and dropped them into the mail slot just as quickly as I possibly could. Gathering up my paperwork I thought phew I made it but as I turned to leave, there was Mark, with flowers ready to pounce. 

He wasted no time “so uh would you like to have dinner and see a movie with me tomorrow night” awkwardly thrusting the carnations into my hands.

Busted! Being a terrible liar and not having any actual plans I wildly searched my brain for any reason why I couldn’t take him up on his offer. I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and most of all I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any wrath from the giant red-head Store Manager Terry who I was certain was behind this entire business. 

Shit, I had nothing, “uh sure, should I meet you some place?”

“Well I’m still working on getting wheels of my own so I was thinking my Uncle could drive us.”

(Silently) Oh good Christ can Kip and LaFawnduh come too while we watch and see if your Uncle Rico can throw this here football over those mountains.

“I’ve got a car, I’ll pick you up, what’s your address?”

“Cool! My mom’s house is at 672 East Fountain. How about you pick me up at 6:30?”

(Silently) Of course you live with your mom, why don’t we just skip the date, head straight to city hall and get hitched!

“630 it is.” 

Vote for Pedro

Being good, God fearing Catholics, my parents married young and had three children one after another after another in record time; then waited 10 years, had one too many bourbon sours at the Elk’s Lodge Annual Dinner Dance and BOOM along came number 4. 

SURPRISE!

After raising the first three kids in a mostly normal fashion, they decided that my youth would be significantly enriched by splitting time, half the year in upstate New York, the other half in mainland Florida. You see there’s an unwritten rule, actually I have no ideas if it’s written or unwritten, that says if you’re from Upstate New York, you’re required to vacation exclusively and retire in Florida. My parents were over achievers and took it one step further.

Every September they packed me up into our green Ford LTD and with Johnny Cash blaring on the 8-track away we went.  It was three days of bliss really, dad did the driving and mom worked the map. This formula guaranteed lots of huffing and puffing, hollering and then the ensuing silent treatment. I was in the back seat wondering what all the fuss was about and trying to figure out how much longer until we hit Pedro's South of the Border. For anyone who hasn’t trekked the eastern seaboard, Pedro's is a filthy tourist trap slash motel slash diner turned meth haven on I95 on the border between North and South Carolina.  It’s a thin slice of heaven. At the time it was the best part of the trip.

For the 50 miles leading up to the joint there is some of the campiest advertising ever conjured. Every mile a new sign, each more ridiculous than the last, but it kept me glued to the windows and occupied so for about an hour everyone in the LTD was happy.

Once we arrived, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. There was so much to see and take in. The165 foot statue topped with a giant sombrero, Pedro’s Coffee Casa where mom let me eat whatever I wanted to just get us the hell out of there and then finally the enormous gift shop where I was allowed to wander around unattended while mom and dad slammed Bloody Marys at the bar.

“Here’s $5 bucks, get whatever you want, but don’t forget to buy some fireworks for your Uncle and for Christ sake don’t talk to any foreigners, we’ll be back to get you in a half hour, maybe 45.”

"Sure Dad" I was picking up what he was putting down.

$5 bucks went along way in the seventies and even further if you were at Pedro’s so after slowly inspecting every dusty item in every cramped aisle and chatting with a few squatters I loaded up on candy, gum, Mad Libs, t-shirts, toys and of course the fireworks for my Uncle that were illegal in both New York and Florida. 

As soon as we drove away I was already hopped up on Fun Dips and calculating how long until we saw Pedro again in the spring.

Old Guys Rule

I was traveling to NY for a bit of an extended vacation that included a college graduation ceremony for my niece, a surgery procedure for my sister and hopefully lots of family time. Getting to Upstate New York from Los Angeles is never an easy journey. It involves at least one plane change and anywhere from 35 to 90 minutes in the car depending upon exactly where I was going.

Today was no different, after touching down in Chicago and grabbing a quick bite to eat, I still had 2.5 hours to kill before I boarded and I was already tired. Tired from traveling and tired of all the people. People being impatient, people being rude, people shuffling around the crowded airport with seemingly no place to go and all day to get there. The people with the raging body odor were no treat either. “It’s not just BO, it’s BBO.”

Without much in the way of a carry on bag and with no need to fight for overhead space I waited until the end of the cattle call, I was the last person on board.  I was looking forward to collapsing into my seat and sleeping away the last part of my trip.  That’s when I spotted him, a tiny old-timer sitting in 35B. I glance down at my ticket just to be certain and YES in fact I was in 35A, my mood skyrocketed.

As I as drew closer I sized up my seat-mate who looked to be around 90. He wore old man blue jeans hiked well up to his chest, a rumpled, well-worn plaid shirt, a weathered ball cap that read “I Heart Jesus” in faded letters and in his gnarled fingers he clutched a small tote that had probably housed cassette tapes back in the 80s. In his breast pocket was a pack of Sweethearts candy. I wondered how long it would take him to offer me one.

About 11 seconds.

Not having made full contact with my seat yet, he leaned in and quietly said “I’m Roy Lester Atkinson, would you like a candy heart?” How could I refuse “Why Roy Lester I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, I’d love a candy heart.”

For the next 70 minutes I learned all about Roy Lester. He told me he was anxious to get home to his calico cat Loreli, he’d been gone about a week and he sure did miss her. And about his trip to Colorado where he went to visit his brother, who wasn’t doing well, he had "the cancer" and Roy Lester’s face darkened slightly. And about his garden, he hoped the gophers hadn't cleaned out the lettuce in his absence..."dang varmints". And all about the time he served in the Navy, Roy Lester sure did love the US of A. . And about his wife, who had “gone up to be with the Lord” 15 years ago, his face darkening again. And boy did he ever love to sing in the church choir, sometimes they would travel to the local nursing homes and sing for the folks there. Laughing out loud Roy Lester said even though his voice sounded like two coon-hounds makin’ pups they let him sing just the same and that made him happy.

In the blink of an eye we arrived in New York and I was a tiny bit sad our time together was coming to a close. I could’ve listened to Roy Lester Atkinson for ever.

“The best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person.” Andy Rooney