-June 2010
Mama has not been entirely well of late and has been unable to pay us a visit in New York.
She is feeling a bit better now and so jumped on the Bolt Bus Express from downtown Philly
to the corner of 34th and 8th by Penn Station, quite the steal at $28 for the round trip.
We arrived a few minutes late to meet her and found her on the 80+ degree day swaddled in a long rain trench coat, her hair all done up for this "special occasion." Max's Bar Mitzvah is not til next year but a lovely gesture nonetheless. I told her: "My mama always taught me to steer clear of old people in trench coats" and pecked her on the cheek. Max gave her one of those squirmy, squiggly
hugs that only 12 year old boys teetering on the edge of puberty can offer.
We hopped a cab to the west village for lunch at the Olive and Fig cafe with my new lady friend. The new friend has something of the upper east side patrician manner about her -- in a warm and maternal way of course. The four of sat in the high ceilinged room, ate vegetables and pasta, and chatted. Max squirmed and slithered and slunk ever lower til his forehead barely showed above the white table cloth, emerging only to devour chunks of chicken and cookies before descending again to those treasured, fleeting depths where 12 year old boys reside.
Before tea arrived, Susan repaired to the powder room and mama whispered "I'll let you pay and reimburse you later."
Afterward, we ambled over to and around high line park, bid good bye to Susan, and rode the subway long way home to Queens.
First time for Mama in my new abode, and the grinding sound I heard as we crossed the threshold combined the elevator descending on the other side of the wall with her antenna -- 84 years old and still well-tuned - extending into full surveillance mode.
She sniffed around the window sills, around the recondite corners of the kitchen, over the polished and in need of polish marble top of the antique chest she gave me years ago. And we chatted about this and that and this: "So your new friend seems so perfect. I wonder what flaws she could have?"
And we chatted about this and that and this: "She seems so warm and polished ... what does she see in you?"
Finally, she lay down on the sofa, stretched out her aching feet and said: "Can I say something? … You need a maid."
On her past visits I have always stowed the cats away in my room overnight, door closed. This time I convinced her that the cats are old, uninterested, and would not bother her while she slept. Except for one incident which must be recounted elsewhere, that turned out to be true.
The next day we rode the subway long way back to the corner of 34th and 8th by Penn Station. A lot of people had grabbed the same bargain and they milled around outside the big red bus that would take them home or away. A husky young women, paying her way through
Manhattan Community College with a weekend job as Bolt Bus boarding coordinator, barked orders: "Look at your ticket people. Get
in the A line or the B line. No boarding until I say so. No boarding yet"
I stood protectively by Mama, not sure what line she belonged in. She teetered away from me and right up in the face of the Bolt Bus coordinator -- the husky, young coordinator in red polo shirt with Bolt logo
confronting a frail, determined Mama in trench coat and done up hair -- and for a second their antennae locked .
"Ma'am, you get on the bus now please."
And so she did.