Au Contraire

Au contraire mon amour: While in the years following, we did miss many flights (because we arrived at airports too late), on this particular occasion I am positive that we had boarded the plane, and were sitting on the tarmac, when we were informed that there was a problem with the plane.

The Real Skinny: "It was a genuine nightmare"

The real skinny (according to Girl): If I had not lived through this flight from Grand Rapids to New York, I would have a hard time believing this could really have happened. It was a genuine nightmare. My poor husband, he missed Monday at school. My puppy missed sleeping on the rug by my bed. I was running on a little sleep and a lot of adrenaline. I went to work, and he called several times as the day progressed. He found the luggage, found the dog, and almost went to jail. We wrote our story to the airline, and can happily report that our trip was free (if you don’t count cab and bus fare and a day spent in total frustration at three airports).

Saga of Three Airports, According to Girl

Saga of three airports according to Girl: It was 1969. Some of the things that went up that year were:
January 15—the Soviet Union launched Soyuz 5.

February 24—the U.S. launched the Mariner 6 Mars probe.

March 3—Apollo 9 carries James McDivitt, David Scott and Rusty Schweikart into space to test the lunar module.

May 22—Apollo 10’s lunar module flew to within 15,400 miles of the moon’s surface.

July 16—Apollo 11 carried Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins toward the first landing on the moon.

November 19—Apollo 12 astronauts Charles Conrad and Alan Bean landed at Oceanus Procellarum, becoming the third and fourth humans to walk on the moon.

December 2—the Boeing 747 jumbo jet made its debut, carrying 191 people (most of them reporters and photographers) from Seattle to New York City.

Hey, wait just one minute. We were there. We watched the Apollo launches on our black and white, we heard the excitement from the Kennedy Space center as Mike and I along with hundreds of millions around the world watched the landing on the moon. The missions that year were planned and executed with every minor detail strategically considered.

The Carrier Flight also happened that year. It had been months since we had a break from the daily city life. We saved our paychecks to head to the Midwest for the holidays. We were going to join ranks of the astronauts and others and fly those friendly skies.

Preparation was intense. There were the logistics of getting to LaGuardia with Mister (our Norwegian Elkhound); checking in our three suitcases; and leading our very hyper "teenage" puppy into the aluminum airline "approved" dog kennel. We were told that it was perfectly okay to fly with the dog. Our taxi driver was given an enormous tip ahead of time to put up with suitcases and the dog. It was actually going smoother than we expected. "It pays to plan ahead," we concluded. This was going to be a great trip. Our families were going to be so excited to see us.

So, how was it that our very small plane trip ended up to be so complicated?

United Airlines was trying its best to be accommodating on the flight to Grand Rapids. Mister was put in the cargo hold. We had drugged him with the tranquilizers that the vet had provided. Even though they seemed to have little or no immediate effect, we remained hopeful he would have a pleasant trip. We then checked in, and were on our way.

Well, Michigan was looking good! The snow was on the ground, the Christmas lights created a dazzling array of colors and configurations to welcome us. The holidays that year came and left quickly and we needed to get back to NYC.

 

Hey, not a problem. Getting here was a "walk in the park," so to speak. We anticipated a similarly uneventful trip back. We were anxious to get home to Glendale after our whirlwind visit, hitting both sides of the family.

My brother dropped us off at the airport in plenty of time. We anticipated a quick stop in Detroit to pick up more passengers, and we would then be landing early afternoon at LaGuardia. I would have plenty of time to unpack and get things ready for work the next day.

That was the plan.

Unfortunately, Mike and I missed our connection, but the luggage and dog did not. Talk about nightmare, we were assigned a later flight which would be landing in Newark, New Jersey. At that point, no one could tell us where Mister or the luggage would be.

We got in very late that night. Mike took that Monday off school and spent the entire day traveling from LaGuardia to Kennedy to retrieve dog, kennel and luggage. I went to work that day and he finally called me about 3 p.m. to let me know Mister was fine, just shook up. Our luggage made it to LaGuardia, and so did the dog, however LaGuardia did not have the facilities to keep the dog overnight, so he was transported to Kennedy.

President Nixon seemed to say it best when addressing Congress that summer of 1969: "Years of neglect have permitted the problems of air transportation in America stack up like aircraft circling a congested airport. The purpose of air transportation is to save time. This purpose is not served when passengers must wait interminably in terminals, when modern jet aircraft creep at five miles per hour in a long line waiting for takeoff; when it takes longer to land than it does to travel between cities; or when it takes longer for the air traveler to get to the airport than to fly to his destination."

Yes, lots of us traveled that year–some even in space. I have always said that I love flying and everything about it. Looking back, I loved the fact that the three of us made it back to our Glendale apartment, and that life would go on. But that particular flight will never rank among my favorites.

Chapter 16 - Saga of Three Airports

According to Boy: It had been a perfectly wonderful Christmas visit. The year was 1969. It was our second Christmas together. For our first Christmas, we did not have enough money to even attempt to fly home for the holidays. But by year two, we were financially ready for the adventure.

The New York to Grand Rapids leg of the trip was uneventful. We had managed to tranquilize Mister (our Norwegian Elkhound) adequately, so he was mellowed out for the trip. (I would like to note here that Evie and I later learned just how detrimental flying is to the well being of a pet. I apologize for it, and I would never do it again. Nevertheless, it is still a story worth telling.)

We arrived at LaGuardia in plenty of time, checked in our luggage, and delivered Mister to the kennel area. Everything went smoothly. United Airlines deposited all three of us safely at our destination. When we went to pick up Mister, he seemed fine. I doubt that he slept, but he seemed to have handled the flight quite well. And, all of our luggage made it.

The trip home, however, was to be a different story.

Again, we arrived on time. Again, we had tranquilized Mister appropriately. All, to that point, had gone as planned. We got Mister on the plane, and we even boarded our United Airlines return flight. But, after our plane taxied off the tarmac and out to the runway, it just sat there for what seemed an eternity. At first, we thought it normal. "They’re just being careful," we rationalized.

After forty-five minutes or so, a voice came over the intercom that our plane was having some issues, and we were going to go back to the terminal. That was a bad sign.

So, we taxied back and got off. GRR (Grand Rapids Airport) was small, by most standards. So it only took us a couple minutes to go back to the United Airlines counter and try to make other arrangements. They had no idea just what the problem was, or how long it might take to rectify it. Evie and I both had to get back to New York, she for work the next morning, I for classes.

United Airlines informed us that while they had no more flights out that evening, they could squeeze us onto a flight operated by XYZ airline. The only problem—that plane was already boarding, so we would have to rush to the other end of the airport if we were going to make it.

With no bags to carry, we ran all the way to the gate, and joyfully trotted onto the plane. We felt totally victorious. In fact, we felt more than totally victorious. The only seats left on this flight were in first class. The closest we had ever been to first class was walking through it to coach, and we had done that quite a few times. (I don’t know why they always seat first class passengers in the front of the plane. It must be so the rest of us plebes can bonk them around with our carry-on luggage. Besides, everyone knows the safest seats are in the rear.)

There we were, in first class for the very first time. And, even though we were sort of usurpers, we still received all the accoutrements of the privileged ones, including free cocktails.

I think we each had a couple drinks before we came to the realization that this plane was flying into Newark, rather than into LaGuardia. When we heard that, we looked at each other, and shrugged it off. "It only means that it will take us an additional hour to get home," we thought. "Oh well." We settled back and enjoyed the trip.

After landing and deplaning in Newark, I went to get Mister, while Evie waited for the luggage. Both of us were disappointed. Apparently neither our luggage nor our Mister had been loaded on our plane. Saddest of all, no one at United or XYZ could offer us any help. When we transferred from United, the attendant did not transfer, or return, our baggage claim tickets (which were stapled to our original ticket); the lost documentation also included proof that we had a pet traveling with us. We had no evidence of anything except our ticket stubs from XYZ.

We were much too tired to argue. Their advice was to come back in the morning—which looked to me like a classic case of the "bum’s rush." It was obvious that they were just trying to get rid of us, and we were much too tired to fight back. So home we went.

The next morning, bright and early, we got up and planned our mode of attack. We decided it was important that Evie get to work on time, while I would I skip my classes and deal with retrieving our belongings, and our precious Mister.

I called Newark, both United and XYZ. No one had any advice for me. I called the airport administrator, public relations, security, etc. No one knew anything.

Finally it occurred to me that because our original United flight was scheduled to arrive at LaGuardia, perhaps our luggage and Mister might have somehow arrived at that airport. On a whim, I called LaGuardia. They also knew nothing.

I called United again. This time they informed me that they did show that our luggage and our dog arrived at LaGuardia. "Wonderful!" I yelled, "I’ll be right there." Apparently the original United flight finally did get off the ground.

I hopped on public transportation and headed to LaGuardia. It was still fairly early in the morning. I had started thinking that everything might just turn out okay after all, but I quickly realized that this sentiment was altogether too optimistic.

When I arrived at LaGuardia, I went directly to the United ticket window. They could not help me. They sent me to the baggage claim area. I described to them what our three suitcases looked like, and after about ten minutes they came back shrugging their collective shoulders—they could not help me.

I asked them if they would mind checking again, because I had earlier talked to someone from United who stated that our luggage had arrived, and was waiting for me. The worker was not altogether inattentive. He raised his eyebrows, turned and walked through the swinging doors that led to a general storage area. As he did, I caught a glimpse of our three brown suitcases, all setting together. I said nothing. I just hopped over a pass-through, and followed him.

"You can’t come back here," he shouted, holding up his hands to stop me.

"Those are my cases, right there. Check the name on them."

Apparently they had been removed from Baggage Claim, and just set aside. Lucky for me, because I did not have any baggage claim tags. So I just walked up and grabbed them.

Next I had to find Mister.

I got a cart of some sort, and returned to the baggage handler area. I explained to them that I found my own luggage, no thanks to them, and that now I wanted my dog. It seemed obvious to me that if my luggage came in on United, so did Mister.

At this point, they started taking me a little more seriously. Finally, after talking to about a half dozen baggage personnel, they were able to find some paperwork on a dog that had come in on that flight (the same flight as had my luggage). "Great!" I exclaimed. "That would be Mister. Now where is he?"

They informed me the dog that was on that United flight was reported injured, and was transported to the kennel at Kennedy.

Apparently they did not have a kennel at LaGuardia, so their only option was to declare Mister "injured," and take him to Kennedy.

At that point I started to get very frustrated. I knew that no one was going to help me if I got mad, so I made every effort to remain civil.

I got our three pieces of luggage together and hailed a cab to Kennedy.

You have to understand that while LaGuardia and Kennedy are technically in the same city, they are not close neighbors. LaGuardia is in Queens, not far from Manhattan, while Kennedy is way out on Long Island. It took me two and a half "forevers" (and a lot of money) to get to Kennedy.

Once there, I had the cab drop me off at the main terminal. That was just another mistake in my lengthy list of mistakes that day.

I lugged my three suitcases into the airport, and found the baggage claim. There I learned that the kennel was a very long way from the main terminal. So far away, it was not even on the terminal map. They did help me with a handwritten map, which I proceeded to give to a second cab driver. Begrudgingly, he agreed to take me and my bags out to the kennel, following my little handwritten map.

Once there, he informed me that he could not wait for me. "I’ll be just a few moments," I pleaded, but to no avail. He wanted his money right then, and I complied. After all, he had been willing to follow my map all the way out to the kennel. That would never happen today.

He told me that I could "call another cab, no problem."

I paid and tipped him, grabbed my three bags, and made my way into the kennel area. By that time it was mid-afternoon, and I was running on vapors.

I walked over to the counter, set my bags down, and mustered up my last ounce of patience. "I understand you have my dog. We got separated when our flight was cancelled, and we ended up on XYZ."

 

My assumption was that they would all have a good laugh, and then go back and bring Mister out to me.

They did inform me that Mister had not been injured, as first reported. Apparently the only recourse LaGuardia had to deal with pets was to declare an animal injured, and check it into the Kennedy kennel. That was good news!

But, they did have some bad news for me as well. They told me that without my United baggage claim ticket for Mister they would not release him to me. I asked to talk to a supervisor. I received the same report from him.

I am not proud of it, but I flipped out. I was functioning on about two hours of real sleep. I had been given the run-around at three airports, with very little help from anyone. I was exhausted.

I stood there for a couple moments, picked up a pale green cast iron scotch tape holder, and said to the smug-faced supervisor: "Look, you bastard. You’ve got my dog. You know he’s my dog. You get your ass back there and bring him out here right now. Do you understand me?"

He promptly called security.

A very nice, and extremely large man in uniform, sauntered over to me. "What’s the problem here?"

By that time I had placed the scotch tape holder back on the desk. I explained to him my entire ordeal. Bless the man, he was a dog lover.

He turned to the supervisor. "You got this man’s dog?"

"Yes, but he doesn’t have the claim ticket," the supervisor replied.

"Go back there and get his dog." He waited just a couple seconds, then continued, "To hell with ’em. Come with me."

The two of us walked right past the supervisor, and headed back to

the source of the barking.

We immediately found Mister. "I think he’s happy to see you," the security officer said. He grabbed a leash off the wall, and said, "put this on him, and let’s get outta here. I hate this place. You should re-think puttin’ your dog on a plane. It’s not good for him."

"You’re right. I wouldn’t do it again."

On the way out I stopped to get my suitcases, which I had set just outside the kennel door.

"These yours?" the security officer asked.

"Yeah."

"Here, let me help you."

When we got outside, I realized that my cab had taken off.

"You gonna be okay now?" The security officer asked. "You’re not gonna be violent or anything, are you?"

"No, sir," I replied. "But my cab didn’t wait for me. Think you could get me a cab?"

Of course, that was not his job—he was a security officer, summoning cabs did not fall under his job description. But this guy was terrific. "Sure, he said." He walked back in the kennel and told the supervisor: "Call this man a cab."

Probably ten minutes later a cab pulled up outside, and this misadventure started to draw to a close. I took one last glance back inside the kennel as I got in the cab. At least half a dozen personnel of various types stood there watching me. I smiled as big I knew how, and waved. No one waved back.

Whenever I think back about my behavior that day, I feel very fortunate that I did not come out of it with a criminal record. I don’t think I have ever acted so foolishly since that day.

The Real Skinny: "Cheap it was, and scary"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Cheap it was, and scary. But, he was young, living on the edge, having a minimum amount of cash and lots of miles to travel to be together. So, even though it was risky, Mike did fly Mohawk. His story was, yes, his story. I was not on board the "near death" flight to Michigan; but I was glad he was willing to keep using the cheap method of travel to see me. I do still love to fly. I love the packing, the airports, the check in stuff and especially the thrust of the engines, throwing me back into my upright seat. If you could see my face through this page, you would see my smile. Yes, all for a few crazy hours.

Mohawk Airlines, According to Girl

Mohawk Airlines according to Girl: This afternoon, Mike and I jumped into the Camaro and were heading north on US-131, when up in the sky above us we saw a small plane pulling a glider. They looked like two birds in synchronized flying formation. Mike’s statement was, "I wonder how they heat those things?"

We had just spent an hour winterizing our outdoor stuff, the pool, the gazebo, the cat house (a little building Mike had made to protect a feral mother cat and her babies from the elements), the lights around the creek, and our grandchildren’s tricycles. It is cold—must be below freezing because the snow is not melting, and every time we open the slider, the cats want to come inside.

In 1969, Mohawk Airlines provided a service between Newark and Detroit for twenty-five dollars round trip. The planes were not much bigger or certainly not more impressive than that glider. It must have been an act of pure love to even board the tiny little, accident prone BAC-1-11. Mohawk had four accidents that caused fatalities. It cost more to get to Newark by bus than to get to Detroit by air. I always met him, driving up to Metro Detroit in the little yellow Mustang. Mike would tell me the time and place, and I would be there. Then, he would get behind the wheel and take us back to Grand Rapids. Mike always stayed with his brother in Jenison. He would use his sister-in-law’s car, and we would manage a quick date or two before his flight back on a Sunday night.

The memory of those flights and the warm feeling I have of those weekends is most likely why I still love to fly. Even though today there are the Nazi’s stationed at the entrance to the terminals that might try to steal my joy, I still love flying (I just give them my illegal weapons, such as the little pen knife on my key chain or the lip gloss I forgot to stash inside a tiny plastic bag).

It seems security screening will always beep on me. Last time I flew, it was my two cell phones and one pager. The time before that, I forgot to pull out the laptop and put it in the separate container. The metal detectors do not like hoop earrings, or bangle bracelets. Still, the hassle doesn’t get me down. I can always be found with a smile on my face, as I find my seat (typically next to a window).

After the thrust of the takeoff, I will close my eyes and remember the
days Mohawk brought us together. Life was so very simple, back then—before children, cats, toys and stuff. Mike and I were kids just wanting to play. We were happy there was a Mohawk to provide us with those crazy hours together.

Chapter 15 - Mohawk Airlines

According to Boy: Evie and I loved Mohawk Airlines—I, because it was my airline of choice in 1967-68, and she, because it was my airline of choice in 1967-68. I used Mohawk almost exclusively when I wanted to fly home to see her. The reasons were simple: Mohawk flew out of LaGuardia, and into Detroit; plus, they did it on the cheap. Their program allowed me to fly on any Mohawk airplane, making any connection for which there were seats available, for twenty-five dollars. Of course, there was one little stipulation—I could not get on one of their Mohawk Fairchild Hiller FH-227 turbo-prop airplanes before 5 p.m. Friday, and had to be back at New York’s LaGuardia before 5 a.m. on Monday (or something like that).

So, quite frequently I would call Evie to see if she could meet me in Detroit on a Friday night (she always could). We would spend the weekend together, and she would drop me off at Detroit Metro Airport just in time to catch the flight back to New York. Back then we were paying about thirty cents per gallon for gas, so it really was a cheap trip. I don’t recall how many times I used Mohawk, but it was more than a few. When Evie flew out to visit me, I always had her fly United Airlines, but I liked to use Mohawk when I was traveling by myself.

According to published accounts, labor problems led Mohawk to enter merger discussions with Allegheny Airlines; and after the crash of Mohawk Flight 405 (which killed seventeen), the company was purchased by Allegheny, which later became US Airways.

My most memorable moment on a Mohawk flight occurred on one of those twenty-five dollar weekends. It was snowing and raining a little when we left New York, but it got progressively worse. By the time we arrived at our first stop (either Buffalo or Albany), visibility was very poor. The plane was not full, but there were probably thirty passengers.

Our next stop was supposed to be someplace like Erie, Pennsylvania. Even though I could not see anything out of the windows (because of the overcast), I could feel the plane circling and dropping altitude. This went on for a long time. Then, suddenly, we popped out beneath the cloud cover, and I could see a chimney out of my window—I could look right down it. I am no expert, but I don’t think we could have been more than a 150 feet above it. There was no airport in sight.

The plane then wrenched and groaned. It felt like the pilot was stepping hard on the gas pedal. I was sitting in the front seat, right in front of the door separating the cabin from the cockpit. The flight attendant was sitting beside me. I noticed fear on her face.

Just then the pilot came on the intercom. He informed us that he had been attempting an instrument landing at Erie, but that so far he had been unable to accomplish it. He said that he would make one more attempt. If that didn’t work, he would take the Erie passengers on to Detroit, and Mohawk would have to make other arrangements to get them back to Erie.

"There are no passengers for Erie!" the flight attendant exclaimed. "I pulled them all off in Buffalo!"

With the pilot’s announcement, a man in the rear of the plane jumped up out of his seat, and came running to the cockpit door. He began pounding on it, trying to get the attention of the pilot. "You’re crazy!" he shouted. "I’m a commercial pilot. This can’t be done! I’ve got my son on this plane, and you’re gonna kill us all! This is insane!"

 

The flight attendant quickly intercepted the angry man, and told him to go back and sit down. She also told him that she would make sure there were no more attempts at an instrument landing. She was not a large woman, but she was convincing. The pilot from the back did not go to his seat, but he did sit down on an empty seat across the aisle, as the flight attendant entered the cockpit.

A few minutes later she returned to the cabin, and informed the angry passenger that there would be no more attempts to land at Erie. "I promise you that," she told him. "Now please go back and sit down in your seat." The man did just that, and she sat back down beside me.

"I don’t know why no one informed the pilot that we had pulled all Erie passengers off in Buffalo and sent them surface transportation," she said. "Erie’s closed. Someone dropped the ball on this one."

I thought it interesting how differently from me the father in the back of the plane had reacted to the emergency. Because he was both a pilot and a father, he was furious at the close call. But as for my reaction, I just thought it was exciting.

I guess when you’re young, death is not really a serious consideration. After all, "nothing could hurt me," not back then.

Four years later, Mohawk Flight 405 (out of LaGuardia) hit a chimney and crashed on its approach to the Albany Airport. I didn’t check the passenger list, but it is probably safe to say that there were fathers on that flight, and probably children, and more than likely there were even some college students who thought they were invincible.

The Real Skinny: "Mike was not accustomed to the Polka, and I found myself stepping all over him"

The real skinny (according to Girl): One of the things I remember best about that Christmas was the present Mike brought me from New York—a hand woven wool throw rug (Chapter 80). It was amazing. I loved it. It was totally unexpected and beautiful. I wish we still had it, but after moving it a trillion times, it did not make the final "cut."

As far as the Christmas party at Water Lift was concerned—we did have a few drinks. That was very true. While I am positive that the party actually happened, it remains a big blur. The whole factory showed up, the tables were beautiful, the music divine, but Mike was not accustomed to the Polka, and I found myself stepping all over him. We laughed until we finally excused ourselves and "split that popsicle stand."

Christmas Party at Water Lift, According to Girl

Christmas party at Water Lift according to Girl: Water Lift—new job, new dress, awesome party, splendid date. It began with soldering school that spring. I went to classes for a week. Driving back and forth to Kalamazoo every day with a very tall girl, Jillian, who was hired in the same week. We thought it would be easier to share the driving responsibilities and gas. She had graduated a year ahead of me from Creston High School (home of the Polar Bears). She was pretty, and very tall—over six feet. She could have been a model, or a dancer. But she, as did I, found the help wanted ad in the paper that previous weekend and chose to work in a "clean" factory environment, wearing jeans and sweatshirts, as opposed to working on a semi-assembly line. It was one huge room, big enough to park a few planes inside, with partitioned cubbies for the managers. We had twelve foot tables put together and had three shifts working around the clock on the latest project—the winning bids from the airline industry. The tables were filled with gray plastic bins, much like a busboy would use to clear a table, and the bins were filled with green circuit boards of all sizes and shapes. The object of the game was to find the right transistor, diode, or resistor with the correct colors and twist and bend the wires to fit in the teeny holes, then use a wire cutter, solder, and flux and present our foreman with the beginnings of a beautiful bouquet to grace the landing gear of a jet plane.


School didn’t help, my soldering skills were zip. I hated it. The smell, smoke, burned fingers and worst of all, my rejects, did nothing for my self image. How could this be? I was never, ever really bad at anything. I tried harder, used more flux, less flux, hotter irons, quicker moves, but I just couldn’t get past the inspectors. I wanted to do well, I tried everything I could think of, and it did not help. I was called into the office, we discussed job performance, and I was moved.

The fall came, and all the girls in the lunch room were so excited. They were lighting up one cigarette after another as they talked. Sandwiches were left uneaten and chattering was at a deafening decibel.

"Jillian, what’s going on?"

Management had just posted news on the annual Christmas Party. It was to be held at a banquet hall, the company was providing the food, refreshments, dancing and entertainment. We could bring a date. Our tables filled with middle-aged women and young girls just out of high school, all were getting ideas for what to wear and who to bring.

"Mike, can you make it to my work Christmas Party?"

He said he wouldn’t miss it, he would be in Grand Rapids on his school break, staying with his brother George, and we could go together.

My new dress was red, short, with eight big plastic buttons down the front (four on each side), with a black collar. I wore patent leather black boots with a black bag to match. My coat was black wool. It was short, with a belt of the same wool with a big silver buckle.

I had black gloves and a scarf to keep me warm on that cold December night.

We started the night out with introductions; Mike met tall Jillian, the girls from the line, and my boss, Larry, who was so kind when I got bumped off the soldering line.

We hit the drinks next.

The band played on.

We danced as lovers do—twirling in each other’s arms. The world could have been watching us, but we did not know, it was just Mike and me.

I wanted it to be the two of us forever.

Once in a while, when getting on a plane these days, I wonder about the transistors. I wonder about the circuit boards that had passed through my hands. Some of those planes are decades old.

I shake myself and wake up.

Impossible.

My stuff never passed. The world is safe.

Thank goodness.

Chapter 14 - Christmas Party at Water Lift

According to Boy: This episode took place after I had moved to New York, but before we got married. It would have been the Christmas of 1967, the same Christmas I bought the huge orange and red throw rug for Evie. We had two big events planned for the few days I was to be in Grand Rapids, one was Christmas dinner at my brother George’s house, and the other was the annual Christmas party at Water Lift (the company where Evie worked).
 

I was scared to death at the prospect of being interrogated by all of Evie’s friends, and I suspect she was equally intimidated at the thought of meeting my whole family. It would have been so much more fun had Evie simply flown out to New York, and we could have had a great time by ourselves at Rockefeller Center and Times Square.

I had no notion as to what to expect. What if her girlfriends at Water Lift were like the chick cliques in high school? All that note passing and speaking in code. What if one of her guy friends were to have had a thing for her? That could be uncomfortable. I was not looking forward to the party.

Being the Olympic-sized coward that I tend to be when drastically out of my element, I shopped around at the local liquor stores until I found a bottle of 151 proof Demerara Rum. My reasoning was, no matter how badly the night went, the Demerara Rum could erase it from my memory. But, like most events in life, the anxiety and dread beforehand are almost never mirrored by the actual event.

When we got there, I do recall having a swig of the rum, then a second, and then a third. My head started to feel the power of the alcohol. We then went in.

I don’t remember much about the night. I recall meeting some really nice people. Without exception the comment I heard when I was introduced was: "So you’re the guy from New York…" It was very obvious that all of Evie’s friends had a lot of respect for her.

I actually started having a good time. I could be wrong, but I think we danced almost every dance—and I did not know how to dance.

"It’s easy. Nothing to it," Evie told me, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me on the dance floor every time the band played a Polka.

I knew better than to mix the types of alcohol I was drinking, so I found the rum at the bar. There is no doubt that I was drinking too much. My head was ringing; but we kept dancing.

We kept dancing that night until we stopped dancing, and the "stop" was sudden. I have no idea how they expected us to dance around the huge steel supports that held up the roof of the hall. Initially I was able to miss them. After a time—after too many dances and many too many rums—I slammed Evie into one of the posts.

"Bam." Her whole torso struck it at once. I felt the impact on her body. It did not knock her out, but it was certainly must have been close.

"Maybe we should sit the rest of this out," I said, helping her back to our table. She never complained about it, but I am sure she developed some serious bruising as a result. A short time later we excused ourselves and left.

As I reflect on that evening, three or four things come to mind. First, I was amazed to learn how good a dancer Evie was. While my lack of ability in that area surely diminished our performance together, it did not cloud my ability to appreciate her dancing. Second, I was very impressed at the quality of those she considered her friends, and how they admired her. Third, I really liked the way she treated me that night. I felt really good just being with her. And, finally, I really liked the way her body felt when I held her. We had caressed before, and kissed; but, the magic of her body moving to the music, in my arms, was beyond amazing. Its memory makes me warm to this day.

The Real Skinny: "I did not know that hairspray and a match could make a fire torch"

The real skinny (according to Girl): It was Christmas break. We were headed for my company Christmas party. Mike did the Polka that night; I think it was his first time. We got rather smashed and I did not dare go home, so we got a room, got pizza and the ants invited themselves to join us for some holiday punch and munchies. I did not know that hairspray and a match could make a fire torch, but we stomped it out and did not set off the fire alarms. Whew!

Ant Adventure at the Holiday Inn, According to Girl

Ant adventure at the Holiday Inn according to Girl: Life in Grand Rapids was pretty mundane the first year of our "going together" with long distance phone calls, letters, and no internet. We could not text or instant message. Nor could we take advantage of talking for "no charge for long distance" on a cell phone.
 
 

Life was simple.

Gas was cheap.

The instant gratification of jumping on a plane was unknown.

Money had to be saved. Tickets had to be purchased at the airlines. Travelocity and Expedia were yet to be conceived in the mind of the techie gurus of Seattle or Silicon Valley.

When Mike got off the plane for his Christmas break, I was there to pick him up. It was the weekend; I did not have to work, so I jumped in the Mustang and prayed for dry weather. I had been stranded lots of times when it would downpour and the wires on the Mustang would get wet. Once when it happened, I remember walking on I-96 for a mile to the Fuller exit, where I could use the payphone at the bar to call my dad. He was the car expert of the family. He could fix anything with four wheels. Our garage on Spencer Street was filled with tools and car parts, the two stall was mainly one stall, with the stall closest to the house used to park the vehicle of the week—the one needing repairs.

Dad would pick me up, we would head to the little yellow pain in the rain car, and he would dry off the strategic parts that could not handle the soaking monsoons of spring. Looking like a drowned cocker spaniel with my hair suddenly flat, straight and wet, I could put the heat on high, dry off a bit, put a ponytail in my hair, and head into work.

Mike would be staying with George on this trip. However, for the first night, we opted to spend the night together. With very little money, we needed to find a cheap motel.

Holiday Inn, 28th Street and Interstate 131 was economical, fairly close to my work, and conveniently located between George’s house and Spencer Street (where I lived).

Getting to the airport an hour early that day, I remember wearing my

new jeans, a black jacket, black gloves, a white turtleneck sweater, black pointed cowboy boots and a huge black leather bag. My chestnut colored hair was curled around my face, giving me the innocent schoolgirl look of a nineteen year old. I stood on the deck at Kent County Airport, it was breezy and sunny. December in Grand Rapids generally is not the best time of year to go up on the deck, however with a nickel, you could look through high powered binoculars and watch the flights coming and going. I was only interested in the United flight from LaGuardia.

When the loudspeaker announced his flight was arriving, I rushed down to the terminal, boots slipping down the four sets of stairways and past the unimportant gates to the United gates at the end of the terminal. I was chilled outside, my fingers, toes and nose were red from the forty-five minutes spent on the icy cold sunny deck, but inside, I was hot.

There he came; he was the last one off the flight. His seat was towards the back, and he must have been helping others, or perhaps, he was sleeping and dreaming about me. He looked great. His hair was sandy blonde; he wore his fresh dress shirt, his jeans and his brown leather jacket.

I saw him and melted.

We kissed, as only lovers do, and he twirled me and wrapped his arms around me, while we attempted to head to the car.

I had packed a small overnight bag with toothbrush, toothpaste, stuff for my contacts and hairspray.

We tossed the thirty-five dollars on the desk and signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Carrier. I liked the sound of that.

Mike found a place to get a bottle of wine and we ended up getting some pizza. We spent the night making love with Johnny Carson in black and white as the entertainment. Mike woke me up in the early hours with a terror in his voice. "Ev, Ev, wake up!"

I was panicked. What was wrong? I could tell by his voice that someone was hot-wiring the Mustang or maybe trying to break into our room.

What he said next caused me to wonder exactly how much we had to drink.

"Ev, the floor is moving!"

I focused.

Oh my gosh—a billion ants.

They were all over the carpet.

I did not dare get out of bed.

I shuddered, pulled up my bare feet and scrunched into a frightened ball of Evie.

Well, we skillfully pulled a MacGyver, brain over brawn, to solve this desperate problem. MacGyver brilliantly would use household chemicals to create poisons or explosives. Mythbusters, a popular show on cable, often will spend their hour trying to prove or disprove many of MacGyver’s tactics.

We took what we had in the room, hairspray and a match.

Mike shot the spray of carbon, hydrocarbon and alcohol in the air just above the crawling floor and lit a match. Ants were torched, along with carpet fibers, oops. We stomped out the smoky room, we were thankful the smoke detector did not go off, inviting the fire department to the storyline of this winning episode.

The cousin ants who were left on the scene understood they were unwelcome guests and promptly sauntered off in a fit of rage and wonder with something to tell their ant kids.

Mike and I decided it was time to leave the room with its brocade draperies, quilted bedspread, and red shag crispy carpet. We packed it up, leaving what was left of the pizza in the room for next of kin to enjoy, and we headed out to pancakes and black coffee.

Chapter 13 - Ant Adventure at the Holiday Inn

According to Boy: Curiously, for the past sixteen years we have lived virtually across the street from the motel in which this adventure occurred. However, it is no longer a Holiday Inn—the Holiday Inn Corporation sold or leased the building and property to another motel chain, and they built a new facility directly across the street, or just west of our house/business. So, that could mean one or both of two things: 1—Evie and I did not put them out of business; or, 2—our stupidity tipped the scales and they gave up at that location. (Or, our poor behavior was inconsequential.) Anyway, this is what happened.

The adventure occurred during my Christmas break, 1967. At least I think that was the occasion. I am sure it happened in 1967 (It was about that time that my maturity level began to develop). I had booked a room at the Holiday Inn. I could have stayed at my brother’s house, but opted for a motel room, hoping to "get lucky." My guess is that I had reservations for only one night (the night of my arrival), planning to stay with George the rest of the time.

Evie and I went directly from the airport to the motel, checked in (paying with a personal check) and unloaded my one piece of luggage. I imagine I washed my face and hands, and brushed my teeth (I still do that as soon as I get off a plane). We then ran out to get some fast food. At that time there was not a plethora of fast food restaurants as there is today, but there were McDonald’s, Burger King, Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken, and some others. I am not sure to which we went, but my best guess is that it was Burger King (Whoppers and onion rings). I recall there being a lot of ketchup, which makes the presence of onion rings the more likely.

I remember picking up a six-pack of Budweiser (Today that thought shocks the heck out of me, because that was before "Bud Light." I can’t imagine consuming all those carbs!). I remember eating, drinking Bud, and making love (perhaps not in that order). Eventually sleep (stupor?) set in. We both woke up at about the same time—the Bud was gone, but the lovin’ wasn’t.

About 10 a.m. we decided to get up. I had got up early to use the bathroom, but now I was actually contemplating starting the out-of-bed part of the new day. I dropped my feet to the floor, right onto some food wrappers, which were wet with ketchup. But that is not all that I stepped on. There were thousands of ants marching in line and carrying little bits of last night’s food back to who-knows-where. …Thousands!

Evie had already got up and was washing her hair. I called to her, "Ev, toss me a towel, I stepped in some ketchup." She stepped out of the bathroom and tossed me a wet towel. I wiped off my feet, and jumped out of bed from the other side.

"We’ve been attacked by an army of ants. There’s thousands of them," I said as I walked to the bathroom. "I hate ants."

Evie said, "You’re kidding, right?"

"No, I’m not kidding. Maybe it’s in the millions."

She walked over to my side of the bed. "Oh my gosh, how can we kill them?"

"I’ve got an idea. You’ve got hairspray, right?"

"Yea, it’s in the bathroom," she answered.

I went in and got it, and walked over to where she was standing, observing the colony.

"Hairspray kills ants?" She asked.

"Sort of, if you combine it with a cigarette lighter," I said.

I looked around until I located my lighter. "The combination of hairspray and flame equals a blow torch—blow torches kill ants," I said.

I then surveyed the ants’ path. It extended from the ketchup, across the carpet, and all the way over to the baseboard under a window. There I discovered a hole. That is where they were going after securing their little morsels.

I went back into the bathroom to test my weapon of mass destruction. "Come in here, I’ll demonstrate it for you," I said to Evie.

She followed me in. I pulled back the shower curtains, lit the lighter, held it about six inches from the hairspray, and then pushed the aerosol button. It produced an amazing ball of flame that startled both of us.

Evie jumped back. "Could that blow up?"

"No. When I quit pushing the button, the flame stops. It’s completely safe, at least for us. It won’t be so safe for those ants, though."

I returned to the battlefield, sizing it up one more time. I wanted to accomplish my mission with one single, devastating attack. It took two nukes to bring Japan to its knees—I wanted to bring victory with one single bomb.

I pointed the can directly at the ketchup, held the lighter in its proper position, ignited it, and pushed the lethal button. The destruction was enormous. I kept the weapon blazing all the way to the window, and then extinguished it.

There is no doubt that I killed every ant in the room. However, that is not all I "killed." I killed a substantial section of the carpet. I wouldn’t have thought that the carpet was flammable. Perhaps it wasn’t. Maybe it was just that enough of the hair spray hadn’t burned up until it hit the carpet. Whatever the case, the floor was on fire. Starting with the ketchup-papers, and extending all the way to the wall, there were flames shooting up six inches or more.

I grabbed the wet towel I had used to wipe off my feet, and smothered the flames. Thankfully, there was not a lot of smoke generated (which lead me to think that all that was really burning was the residue of the hairspray, not the carpet). That is not to say, however, that the carpet was unscathed. No, that was not at all the situation. The carpet was ruined, at least in the area where the ants had been.

All the carpet fibers had melted and stuck together. Because the towel was already destroyed, I used it to try to get the carpet cleaned up. I was able to scrub off all the surface damage, using shampoo and bar soap, but when I walked over the area it felt like I was walking on broken glass. All the little melted carpet fibers would poke into my bare feet. "That won’t be too bad, as long as you’re wearing shoes," I said, mustering up a little humor.

We were ready to check out. So we packed up all our stuff.

Just before we left, I walked over to the killing fields one last time. "I’ll bet I get a bill for this," I said. We then picked up our stuff, left the room, closing the door behind us.

This "ant adventure" remains as one of the most embarrassing events of my life. But, Evie married me anyway. Some stories have happy endings.

I suppose I can say that due to that most wonderful of legal precepts—the ubiquitous "statute of limitations." Sure it would apply here. Right? If not, I deny everything.

The Real Skinny: "Messy dark hair and dark eyes"

The real skinny (according to Girl): I question the Budweiser. It’s not my style. The poster was a shocker. Hopefully it has found its way to a deep dark hole in the center of the earth. Messy dark hair and dark eyes peeked out at a moment in time when the lens pointed in my direction and the photographer snapped and shot a very young Evie. I begged him to get rid of it at the time. It didn’t happen. I think the original is now gone.

Mike's Poster of Evie, According to Girl

Mike’s poster of Evie according to Girl: It featured a three lug bayonet mount with a 44mm throat and a flange to focal plane distance of 46.5mm. It was manual focus, professional and adventurous. The black and whites created in the mind and birthed in the lab were a cross between art and wildlife.

Mike had the gift. I was his subject. He would shoot, I would model. Posing with kids from the hood and fountains from the street, he was able to capture the dancer in me.

After I went back to Michigan, Mike took the opportunity to set up his dark room and develop a few rolls. He found one picture that he especially liked. This picture featured my dark piercing brown eyes from under messy hair, while sitting on his bed and wearing his dress shirt.

He selected that negative, ran it down to Times Square, and ordered an almost life-sized poster.

Okay, could have been worse. I could have had less on, or maybe a cigarette in my mouth.

Actually, it was a pretty good picture. Mike worked on his shoots like a hunter after the first deer of the season. Lighting, focus, background, and the weapon of choice all played important factors in getting the perfect image.


The Nikon that he used still sets on our dresser. We have graduated from the monochrome classics of black and white to color, and then to Canon digital. But that Nikon will have a special place in our hearts and will provide for our studio many powerful shots giving the white walls the Leibovitz feel of the moment.

Chapter 12 - Mike's Poster of Evie

According to Boy: (For some reason, I have the sense that I wrote about this before. Perhaps not as a chapter topic, but maybe in connection with another topic.)

The infamous Evie poster started out as a prank on Evie’s first visit to New York. We were staying in a room I had rented at the hotel where I lived—the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Unlike subsequent stays at the Waldorf-Astoria and the Statler Hilton, I was not able to get a student rate at the Fifth Avenue, even though it was owned by the university. The cost of the room was exorbitant for my budget. We barely had money for meals. Lucky for us, we were not much into eating those days. We lived on sandwiches from a great little deli in the Village, and on wine.

It was during this visit I for the first time in my life realized just how sweet life could be with a girl like Evie. The feeling was right, the smell was right, the taste was right, the lips were right, the brown eyes were right, the soft thighs were right—everything that could be right, was right. And, best of all, she was a terrific girl. I was in love.

So, being the consummate (perhaps aspiring) photographer, I had to get a picture of this girl. And I did. She had nothing on but my white dress shirt. She was sitting on the bed, her dark curly hair tousled sufficiently to be interesting, knees crossed, shirt unbuttoned (but not disclosing anything), and gripped in her right hand was a can of Budweiser. She still swears that she never drank beer, but I the picture to prove otherwise.

What made the picture captivating to me was the deep color of her brown eyes and thick lips. I shot the photo with my Nikon Photomic T, using Kodak Tri-X Pan black and white film. I knew from experience that this film would render a grainy, but very sensual picture.

I got the negative developed and printed after she had gone back to Grand Rapids. I remember looking through the pictures while still standing at the photo counter. I could not believe what I saw. It was the most incredible picture I had ever seen. It looked like something you would expect to see in the ad of a new perfume. She looked so unbelievably beautiful, and sexy.

I spent a large part of the evening opening up my desk, and checking the picture out, then putting it back. It was not the type of picture that you allowed your roommate to see. I knew that if he did, he would make some comment, and I would break his nose. So I left it in my desk.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered how it would look as a poster. So one Saturday afternoon I took the negative to one of those specialty shops in the Village, and had them take a look at it. The photo clerk blew it up on his viewer, projecting it on the wall. The clarity and contrast were pretty good, so I ordered a poster.

I think they had to send it out to a studio to have it made, because I waited about a week for it. Every other day I would stop in to see if they had it. Finally, they told me it was done, and they brought it out to me, sliding it out from between two pieces of cardboard, they laid it out on the counter. My jaw dropped. While it was produced from a small-format camera, the focus was perfect, and the contrast high. They had done a great job. I think it cost about twenty-five dollars.

I didn’t tell Evie I had it made. And I certainly did not put it on the wall of my shared room. I rolled it up, and tucked it away in my closet.

Then, the next time Evie came out to visit, while she was in the bathroom I taped it on the wall above the head of our bed. At first she did not notice. But when she did, she just about blew a gasket. She was not terribly happy about my having it made up. It was more than a little risqué, and that was the part that she did not like.

I did assure her that no one but she and I had ever seen it. Then it was a little easier for her to handle.

Until this book was written, we remained the only two people who had ever seen the poster. With a little coaxing, I managed to convince Evie that we should include a picture of it in these pages.

The Real Skinny: "I bought more stamps, put my money in the travel jar, and kept my suitcase out"

The real skinny (according to Girl): We thought it was final. I would never come back. I would stay in Michigan, and he would stay in New York. He would not talk to me and I didn’t get it. By the time the plane landed in Grand Rapids and I was home again, he would call and we would begin again.


We knew we both wanted the same thing, to be together. I bought more stamps, put my money in the travel jar and kept my suitcase out.

Mike's Mood Swings When Evie Left, According to Girl

Mike’s mood swings when Evie left according to Girl: I recently read that a person’s eyes dilate when looking at someone they love. Also, apparently the eyes will also dilate when looking at something or someone they hate.


Sounds interesting. This was similar to what happened at the airport scenes of the weekends I spent in New York.
I loved coming to New York. I hated leaving.

Our director instructed us to put our emotions and souls into the initial scene one. We heard the lights, camera action, as I came down the ramp from the plane. He would be waiting, in his jeans and dress shirt. Sleeves rolled up, I think they were French cuffs, however when you did not bother with the links, it was easier to roll them up. He spent hours, working on papers, and the typewriter with legal pads and pencils at his side, his hands were free and clear of anything that might be a distraction. He stood there while I ran, cutting through the crowd and passing the slower traffic on the bridge, I would find his arms, we would kiss, and yes, my eyes would probably dilate. That’s why he would call me his brown eyed girl.

I was not sure why he loved me. He could find a rich girl on campus. He could find a Coco Chanel snob. He could find someone who had degrees, parents with status, an intellectual; he could easily have assumed the role of a graduate student snob.

As my visit drew to a close, we would head to the air terminal (yes, terminal was the perfect name for this last scene). We were grumpy. Overtired, broke and mostly not wanting the movie to end this way. Why do some movies just have sad endings? Much like many love stories, my visits always seemed to make us cry at the end.

Our movie closed with silence, an empty head and heart. The eyes told the story. Bach, Concerto Number Three in D Major playing in the background, the final moments, I grabbed a pillow, pushed back the blue seat on the plane, looked out the tiny airplane window at the yellow and orange sunset with the silhouette of the skyline and tears streamed down my face.

I left. It was over. Seven hundred forty six miles. I will miss him.

Chapter 11 - Mike's Mood Swings When Evie Left

According to Boy: Under normal circumstances, I did not suffer from mood swings. When I would have a particularly bad day in school, I might get a little bummed out, but I would just work a little harder to make up for it. I called it "work therapy." Sometimes I would put on my running shoes, and run a hard five or even ten miles. I would run until my body hurt so badly that I forgot what was bothering me. That’s how I handled my anger the day I left my camera in a taxi—I went out and ran about a dozen miles, with engineer boots on. I was in such pain afterward that I forgot all my other problems.


During the days and weeks leading up to one of Evie’s visits I would be in the best of moods. My anticipation was like a high. I tried to consider every possible problem that could occur, and make contingency plans. I would ask myself questions such as these: "What if it rains? What if she doesn’t want to go to a play? What if she doesn’t like Italian? What if they don’t let us register at the hotel?" There were always a hundred bad things that could happen for every good thing. I felt like I must consider them all, at least those I could think of.

I would always meet her at the airport. And I was always on time. When possible, I would try to get registered at the hotel before I met her. My thinking was that if I was already signed in, no clerical error could waylay us. I would have a bottle of wine ready, and chilled. If she was hungry, I would have a place in mind that I knew she would like. It might not have seemed so orchestrated, but I did my best to have everything covered.
Part of that planning included improvisation. If one of us had a good idea about something to do, we would easily slip into it and change the set plan. It was more fun that way. But that did not change the fact that the overall plan was still in effect; it was just that it allowed for changes. Sometimes we would get caught up watching Johnny Carson, and take a pass on walking Times Square at midnight. I guess you could call it rigid flexibility.

We both would have a great time every time she would visit. We absolutely never had a disagreement. That is, not until it came time to take her back to the airport. Then, just as we started counting down the hours, and then the minutes, I became a different person. It was terrible. I hated to see myself get that way, but I did. I could not help it. I would always find something to crab around about. Evie never initiated it—she was nice no matter what. But I changed.

I knew what the problem was—I had spent so much time and energy anticipating her visit, and I had such a great time with her, I could not bear the thought that she was leaving. It killed me to think that within the next few hours I would no longer be able to hold her, and taste her sweet mouth. It drove me nuts.

I never touched her in anger. In fact, in the forty plus years we have been married, I have never physically struck out against her. It is just not in my nature to do such a thing. But I was really rotten to her when she was getting ready to leave me alone in New York.

I tried and tried to work on it, but I never mastered my disappointment. Thank God she did not give up on me before we got married. Once she moved out to New York for good, I don’t recall ever again experiencing those manic/depressive symptoms.

I could never really relate to what Shakespeare intended when he wrote that "parting is such sweet sorrow." To me, there was nothing sweet about it. It was more like post-partum depression.

The Real Skinny: "She's cute"

The real skinny (according to Boy): So often, when I think about Evie, I am reminded of the movie, My Cousin Vinny. The movie was made in 1992, and starred Joe Pesci and the second cutest girl in the world, Marisa Tomei. I would be hard pressed to describe my favorite scene—they are all great. But the one I recall best is the one where Vinny presses a witness (Vinny was a trial lawyer) to state how cute his girlfriend was. That’s how I have always viewed Evie. She’s cute.

Not only is she cute, but she is a darn good writer. Don’t you just love her little rat story? I wish I had thought of that. She doesn’t, however, mention the fact that one time I was able to retrieve her contacts from the drain. There would have been no point trying the second time, because I knew exactly where they were. I will concede the fact that they might eventually have ended up in that rat pawn shop (more than likely, however, via the East River).

New York Accommodations When Evie Came to Visit, According to Girl

New York accommodations when Evie came to visit according to Girl: Just like little Annie Oakley, when I came to town I was "packing." However, I was not packing a 22 caliber rifle (to split a playing card edge on, and put five or six more holes in it before it hit the ground).

What I packed were two main ingredients for a trip to see Mike. First, of course, my birth control pills, yep, this little sharpshooter did not need to return to Michigan with a problem. And, secondly, my contact lenses.

Didn’t need a suitcase for those. Didn’t have to check a bag at the airport. I could wear Mike’s shirts for my sleepwear and after two quick days for a visit, I would be back in the Midwest.

They would be impromptu, I would call Mike and tell him I needed to see him. My check would come, I would head to the bank to cash it. I then went to the airport and bought my ticket. And, by the next weekend, I was in flight.

I can’t believe we could smoke on the plane. No screening, no IDs— anyone with a ticket could get on a plane. The planes were big and loud. I think that the sky would shake when those silver bullets careened through the clouds. The flight attendants were all girls. Not a hair out of place, nails with clear polish and white pearly teeth showed when the red lips parted to offer drinks or dinner. The visits were fast and incredibly delicious. When there was a roommate involved, we would head to the Statler Hilton and get the student rate rooms.

It was there I lost my, no, not lost, I misplaced, no, perhaps, the glass of water should have been less available. But, the contacts were gone in the morning. My view of Manhattan was suddenly diminished. The Staten Island Ferry would not have the clear view of the city, the Empire State Building would wait for another weekend. Sites would wait. It was okay because we could spend more face time.

We imagined they were down the drain. Yes, with the slimiest of sewer rats. They would probably be taking them to the rat pawn shop at the entrance to the train tunnel. The finder would discuss their value with the owner, and they decided to re-sell them as glass bowls, handmade, each being unique, and the little artist’s mark in the right lens to determined authenticity, much like the digital watermarking software used for a photograph.

So, the little rat family, had a fabulous dinner with the pawnbrokers bounty, and I jumped on the Sunday night plane, a bit blinder, but, with the Annie song running through my mind.

"Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight?

Come out tonight, Come out tonight?

Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight,

And dance by the light of the moon."

(by Cool White, copyright unknown; featured in It’s A Wonderful Life.)

And as for me—I will be back. Within a few weeks I will be packin’, just watch me.

Chapter 10 - New York Accommodations When Evie Came to Visit

According to Boy: I was never able to understand why hotels such as the Statler Hilton and the Waldorf-Astoria gave me a discount when I rented a room. To me that did not make any sense. The way I figured, it was a lot like a bar discounting the price of sandwiches for non-drinkers. Why? A hotel should cater to a clientele that has money to spend in its restaurants, gift shops and bars—that would not be students. Also, I suspect that students (in 1968) bounced a higher percentage of checks than business travelers. And if anyone was going to steal a robe or a towel, or tear up the place, I’d bet it would more likely be the student, than the family man. So why give lowly students a discount? Beats me. I guess I will have to defer to Hilary Bradt on that one. Nevertheless, I asked for a student discount, and they gave me one.


I am not exactly sure what it cost to spend a night at the Waldorf, but sixty-five dollars per night sounds right. While coming up with that amount was not an insurmountable task, it did require me to save up. I did not have a credit card, so I would have to pay cash up front. Who knows what would have happened had I run up a lot of additional expenses? I think that there might not have been a charge for local calls, and the only way to place a long distance one was "collect." So there really wasn’t much of a way to run up charges.

Evie’s contact lenses always presented a challenge. We literally spent almost the whole time in bed. What an adventure that was. She was so incredibly fun to make love with. How very crazy it is to be so very much in love, and not have to get out of bed to go to work—at least for a few days. We usually bought the use of the room for three nights. That’s about all we could afford, and about all the time we could take off. So, what’s the deal about Evie’s contacts?

Within the first fifteen minutes after arriving at the hotel, Evie would take out her contacts, and place them in a hotel glass, on the back of the bathroom sink, with about two ounces of water. We would then make love the rest of the night, and wake up about noon the next day.

Of course, the first thing I did, upon waking up, was always to brush my teeth, or get a drink of water.

Not yet familiar with Evie’s habit of leaving her contact lenses submerged in a glass of water on the back of the sink, on this one occasion I grabbed a glass from the back of the sink. Noticing that it had a little stale water in it, I dumped it out, and ran fresh water in it.

Later, when Evie got up, she asked me if I had seen a partial glass of water with her contacts on the bottom of it.

"I think I know where they might be," I told her.

Using only my hands, with a damp washcloth to provide a better grip, I disassembled the plumbing. I engaged the stopper in the sink, and dumped the horrible-smelling dregs from the trap into the sink. Carefully I examined every tiny piece of debris until I found the first contact. I had locked the bathroom door so Evie would not have to suffer the odor, nor view the mess I was making. I placed the filthy contact back in the glass, and went after the other one. Eventually I found the second one, and put it with its buddy in the glass. I ran a little water on them to keep them moist. I was pretty proud of myself, but I still was not ready to return them to Evie.

I then put the sink back together, and washed the stinking black mess down the drain. I scrubbed my hands well with bar soap, and then

cleaned the contacts as best I could.

Eventually I unlocked the door and invited Evie in to see what I had found. "How did you find them?" She asked me, visibly shocked to discover that I had located her contacts.

"You really don’t want to learn the details," I told her. "Just be sure to clean them well before you put them in."

This same thing happed a few months later at another hotel. This time, however, I was unable to find the contacts. In fact, I remembered drinking the water in the glass, and probably ingesting those miniature Frisbees.

It seemed so amazing to me that I could totally mess up her vision like that, and she never spoke a cross word to me. I recall thinking that this girl must be an angel, or else she really loved me. As it turned out, both were true.