1 Shore Excursion

by Marie Moore

  Charlie thanked me for the delivery, and he must have seen the hunger on my face, because he offered me a meal. I hated to pass his offer up, but I really needed to get home. It was getting late, I had calls to make, and I had barely started packing.

  Waving goodbye, I pushed my way back up to Canal, ducked into the subway, swiped my Metrocard, and headed back uptown on the R.

  * * *

  At about 8 p.m. I stopped in at Kim’s bodega near my apartment for a few fantastically priced toiletries and a hot pastrami on rye with brown mustard and a Kosher pickle.

  Why a Vietnamese man can make the best pastrami sandwich in all Manhattan is beyond me. I only knew that, having worked through lunch, and after turning down Charlie Wu’s offer, I was totally ready for the pastrami. And for the cold, creamy cheesecake that I bought to top it off.

  “You eat all this, you get soooo fat!” he jeered, staring at my rear. “Hahahaha!”

  Kim thinks he is a real funny guy. He loves to make remarks about my appetite and my shape. But for the sake of his food, I’ll put up with his mouth.

  In reward for his humor, I paid with plastic. Kim hates that, because not only does he have to pay the card people a fee, he also has to report the transaction to his newly-adopted Uncle Sam instead of slipping the cash in the box he keeps under the counter. That would teach the old pirate to call me fat again anytime soon!

  Back out on my street, the jumpy feeling returned, and I thought I caught a glimpse of that homeless guy again on the steps of a brownstone at the end of the block. Then I realized it was only a porter, cleaning the steps.

  “Time to get out of town, kiddo,” I thought. “You’re overdue.”

  “Hey, babe! I got a sure thing for ya in the fifth at Belmont tomorrow!”

  Eddie the Sunbather was yelling at me from his park bench on the island in the middle of the street.

  Most of the time, Eddie hangs out at the OTB in the next block. Sometimes he sells a sheet at the track. On sunny days he sits on his bench, with his shirt open, improving his tan. That would be okay, I guess, if he was also a body builder, but Eddie is overweight, pushing ninety, and has long, stringy, dyed hair. Not a pretty sight. Tonight, with a brisk wind blowing off the river, Eddie wore his ancient trench coat, a scarf, and a Yankees cap.

  “Some other time, Eddie,” I yelled over the traffic, “I’m out on another trip tomorrow and I’m running kinda short on cash.”

  “Well, all right, kid,” he yelled back, “but when I hit it big, you just remember I tried to let you in!”

  I started back down the street, then stopped, caught a break in traffic and crossed against the light to Eddie’s bench.

  “Eddie. In the last few days, when you were sitting here, did you see anyone funny hanging around, anyone who didn’t belong here, not a tourist, not a regular? A homeless guy, maybe, with long brown dreads and weird-looking eyes?”

  He took his stogie out of his mouth and squinted up at me.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Now that you mention it, babe, maybe I did. Yesterday. He was sitting on the steps of your building.”

  He chewed on the stogie then squinted up at me.

  “He been bothering you? He better not bother you none, cause if he does, he’s gonna answer to Big Eddie here. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know that.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Eddie. See you around.”

  Great. Just great. I had a stalker. And not even a cute one. I scooted across the street just ahead of the M5 bus and headed home.

  There were no freaky types hanging around my building as I entered, just the doorman having an intense discussion in Polish with the delivery guy from the dry cleaners.

  While I waited for the elevator, I checked myself out in the lobby mirror. No matter what Kim thinks, I am not fat. Not too old. Not too young. Pretty okay looking, I thought, in my black Manhattan uniform.

  My hair is black, too, and my purse and my shoes. We New Yorkers look like a colony of cat burglars.

  I pushed the elevator button again, like that would make it come faster. The lighted numbers showed it stopped on 6. If it doesn’t come soon, I said to myself, I will take the stairs. I glanced back at the mirror, thinking that I really didn’t look too bad, considering the day I’d had. I am lucky to have these big gray eyes with long enough lashes to get away with very little makeup. And I’m still a long way from Botox, thank God, because I sure can’t afford it.

  The elevator door opened and I stepped in as Mrs. Schwartz from 6B bounded out, pulled by her Weimaraner, Fritz, headed for the sidewalk. The elevator doors closed. A few glistening drops on the floor and a faint odor told me that Mrs. Schwartz hadn’t moved fast enough for Fritz.

  Tons of New Yorkers share tiny apartments with beasts of all kinds, large and small. I don’t. I can’t imagine it. I mean, I’m okay with dogs—I had a dog and a cat back home—but scooping poop at the beginning and end of every day, in the rain, in the snow, in January? Boarding a pet when I’m away on long trips? No, thanks. Not for me.

  Like most of Manhattan, I watched New York One News while I ate my sandwich; then I made some calls, finished packing, and had a long, hot soak in the tub.

  My bathroom, like the rest of the building, is pretty old. The plumbing clanks a lot, but I have this great tub, deep, with high sides. The hot water is included in the rent so that’s one place I don’t have to economize.

  My phone rang while I was soaking—rang a long time—but I didn’t even think about trying to answer it. I finally forced myself out of the water and brushed my teeth. After I climbed in between the sheets I was lucky to get the light turned off before I fell asleep.

  When I first moved to New York, the night noise drove me nuts. I mean, Janusz is right. I am from a small ‘willage,’ where you can count all the red lights in your head if you think hard enough. My evening sounds were whip-o-wills and the wind blowing through the trees. I also like sleeping with the window open, which of course magnifies the noise problem.

  My first week in Manhattan, I was sure I’d picked an apartment in the wrong neighborhood. In the daytime the street seemed quiet enough, but when I turned off the lights, I learned that New York quiet is not Mississippi quiet.

  Horns. Voices. Garbage trucks. Car alarms. Drunk Russians. Loud tourists. More car alarms. Diesel engines. Fire trucks. Ambulances. In the middle of the night. All night. Every night.

  The rest of the world thinks that the phrase “city that never sleeps” means excitement. New Yorkers know what it really means. Night noise. Of course the city never sleeps. It can’t.

  In time, of course, I adjusted. I tried a lot of stuff before reaching that point. The little white pills left me groggy at work. The earplugs were impossible. If I put the window down and went to sleep I woke a couple of hours later, suffocating because of the radiators.

  I complained about noise pollution to the EPA. I called the Mayor’s Quality of Life Hotline. I drank milk. Nothing helped.

  But then, one night, for no good reason, after three weeks of insomnia, I slept. Nirvana. I simply didn’t hear all that stuff anymore. I had become a New Yorker.

  2

  The phone woke me on Saturday morning, but when I finally answered it, no one was there.

  Major bummer. Two missed calls. No number listed.

  I rolled over. Probably a telemarketer.

  The phone rang again, but this time, there was someone on the line. My mother.

  “Mornin’ darlin’, time to rise and shine. Aren’t you leaving on your cruise today?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but not until tonight. I’ve had a long week, Mamma, so I planned to sleep in a while this morning. I am meeting my group at Kennedy late this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I woke you up, baby. I just wanted to tell you that another one of your daddy’s sisters is getting a divorce.”

  “Which one? Seems like one of them is always getting a divorce.”

  “Yes, I know. The women in
the Marsh family have always had lots of trouble with men. It’s just how they are. The Marsh Curse, that’s what I call it. Always attracted to Mr. Wrong, never to Mr. Right. This time it’s your Aunt Caroline. She’s leaving that chiropractor she met in Cleveland. I can’t say I’m surprised. I never thought it would last. He’s a Yankee, and was married three times before he met her.”

  “Mamma, Aunt Caroline was married before, too, first to that professional wrestler, and then to Uncle Jack, the bible salesman. I liked him. He made me laugh.”

  “How could you have liked Jack, Sidney, when he turned out to already have a wife and family up in Missouri? That just shows that you’re a Marsh girl, too, and have no judgment at all when it comes to finding the right man.”

  “You might be right, Mamma. But we can’t all be the belle of the ball like you were and find someone as good as Daddy.”

  “No, that’s true. You’re right about that. They don’t make many men as good as your Daddy anymore. His sisters sure have had bad luck, though. That’s the gospel truth. Well, I guess I better get off the phone now, baby. It’s long distance and we’re just burning up money. You have a good time, now, you hear? Don’t work too hard and look around on that big ship, honey. There might be a nice man on there just meant for you. I mean a nice man, now, honey, not one of those ole boys like your aunts are always runnin’ off with and marryin’. Don’t you be bringin’ one of those home! Bye now, darlin’. Love you. Have a good time now, and be careful!”

  “Okay, Mamma. Goodbye. Love you, too. Glad you called.”

  I ended the call, put the phone on silent, rolled over, and went back to sleep. As I drifted off, I wondered if she might be right. Was there a Marsh curse? And if so, did it apply to me?

  * * *

  The afternoon sun slanting through the mini-blinds finally persuaded me that it was time to get moving. I showered and dressed, drank iced tea, ate a sandwich and made my bed; then I rolled my bag down the hall, into the elevator, and out into the lobby.

  The hallway smelled like marinara sauce. People here cook a lot on the weekend.

  “You are leaving again so soon.”

  My favorite Pole grabbed my bag and carried it down the steps to the street.

  “While you are gone, this time, your sink, I fix. Yes?”

  “Yes, indeed, Janusz. That would be great. I would love for you to fix my sink.”

  I knew full well that he wouldn’t.

  The black car bound for Kennedy was at the curb, and while the driver loaded the bag I grabbed a Post and a Times from the newsstand on the corner. The street vendor cart that was always there for me in the mornings with a fresh cup of coffee, fixed just the way I like it, was gone.

  New York is all about fresh. Fresh pastrami, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh flowers.

  Fresh driver from the car service. “So, whereya goin’, doll?” he said, checking me out.

  “Kennedy, please. British Airways.”

  “Kennedy I already know, doll,” he smiled. “What I mean is, whereya goin’ after that? And whenya comin’ back? And when you DO come back, how about maybe a beer and a pizza sometime, you and me?”

  You can’t blame a guy for trying, and he was pretty cute, but I smelled married so I turned him down. Single guys’ clothes never smell of meatloaf.

  The car service can be sketchy because Itchy Feet won’t pay the five bucks to guarantee the fancier car, so you never know. Sometimes I score and ride like Mrs. Astor, gliding down Grand Central Parkway in a sweet new Town Car with soft leather seats.

  Sometimes I bounce through Queens in a beat-up glider that is 15,000 miles overdue for a brake job, mesmerized by the little cardboard air-freshener swinging from the rearview.

  My rejected Italian Stallion floored it along the north edge of the park and through Carnegie Hill, apparently preferring the cross-town lights and traffic to the twilight charms of Harlem.

  He was really showing off as he swung left onto the FDR, but I forgot all about him, watching the lights of the RFK Bridge reflected on the water of the East River.

  I thought of other trips I’d taken—of other bridges, other rivers.

  I remembered dusk along the Ganges, a faraway river that is also beautiful only in darkness. And I thought that, like the Ganges, you never know when a body might just pop up in the East.

  * * *

  The black car got me to JFK earlier than I had planned on Saturday evening, but it was just as well, because my old chicks are always early. I rolled my bag to the meeting point inside the international terminal and pinned on my bright pink “Hi, y’all!” button.

  Now that I have abandoned my Southern-belle-with-six-suitcases persona, I rarely check a bag, but for this fancy cruise, I had to bring a bit more.

  “Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh!”

  A blue hair helmet headed my way.

  Ready or not, hon, here come the High Steppers!

  I turned to smile at one of my regulars, Ruth Shadrach, her prim little self forty-five minutes early.

  Ruth had faded blue eyes in a pinched face that must have once been very pretty. She wore a dusty rose twin-set, tan mom pants and sensible shoes. Her graying brown hair had been carefully styled at what was almost certainly a standing appointment and locked into place with industrial strength super-super hold hairspray.

  “I have been waiting here for almost an hour, Miss Marsh. One airline man was very rude to me. He could barely even speak English! I couldn’t find you. I didn’t see any stewardii. I didn’t see any of our group. I would have already called the travel agency if it didn’t close early on Saturday. I thought I had been left!”

  The others trickled in, and I greeted them, helping each one with tickets and passports and bags, bag tags and nametags. I checked the passengers off my list as they arrived, collecting the entire group before proceeding through security. An international flight requires a pretty long check-in, and it is hard to keep the early arrivals corralled until you have the whole group assembled. The siren song of the duty-free shops drives them wild.

  I knew most of the group, but as usual there were a few who were not true High Steppers. Our prices for these trips are pretty good, so that often attracts extras, at least for one trip. However, for most people under forty, unless you are seriously into Lawrence Welk, one trip with this bunch is plenty, no matter how good the deal is.

  I’m assigned to the High Steppers far more often than the other agents in my office, and I’m fine with that. I like them.

  Some of our agents balk at leading senior groups, because of the extra care involved in such tours. I’m okay with seniors. I grew up around old ladies and gentlemen, in the older section of a small town in the South. I was surrounded by my grandparents and uncles and aunts and great-aunts and great-uncles and all their friends.

  My fond feelings for my elders began then, in my childhood.

  My friends who lived in the modern section of town were closer to the new school and had kids their own age right next door, but they didn’t have the Misses Wells to make teacakes for them, or Mr. Billy to tell them stories. Those kids wouldn’t have dared to go near that strange old woman down the block who showed me the difference between a robin’s egg and a mockingbird’s.

  What I’m trying to say is, some people sell older people short, but I never have. I respected them when I was seven, and I respect them now. They are usually good sports and they pretty much tell it like it is. That can be refreshing, and often includes some wonderful stories as a bonus.

  So I don’t mind at all being assigned to seniors. It’s good that I don’t, because escorting your elders around the world is a job that is not always easy.

  “Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh, hello, Miss Marsh ...”

  3

  I stood and stretched in the stuffy murk of the 747’s business class cabin about fifteen minutes before the lights went up for the breakfast service.

  Right on schedule.

  That fifteen minute slot
is just enough time to get myself together and sneak back to the tourist section before my charges start looking for me. Surely you didn’t think that Itchy Feet would actually pay for me to fly in business class, did you? In your dreams!

  I suspect that those who have traveled with me before have begun to catch on to the fact that I have friends among the crew on most of my regular routes, pals who don’t mind letting me in the front late at night if there’s room and no one makes a big deal about it. I put my shoes back on, got my stuff together, and headed back to freshen up before the aisles were blocked with breakfast carts.

  As I moved down the aisle I noticed that Mr. Klein was not having quite as good a time this morning as he’d been having last night when the drinks were served. He massaged the bridge of his big beak of a nose with manicured fingers, then ran his hands through his freshly barbered gray hair, slicking it back into place. The huge diamond ring he wore flashed in the overhead light. He wore a custom-made black silk shirt, now rumpled, and gray pleated pants with an alligator belt.

  His little baby-doll wife, Sylvia, was applying orange lipstick without a mirror. Strands of her platinum blonde hair had fallen from her stylish up-do. She brushed them out of her big blue eyes and stretched. That move caused Abe Klein to smile in spite of his hangover. He was admiring her abundant bust, made even more prominent by her pink angora sweater.

  The Murphy family looked as if they felt pretty ragged, too. Gladys and Muriel, mother and daughter, were both huge. Their enormous bodies were wedged into the overcrowded coach seats. Pete Murphy wasn’t as wide as his wife and daughter, but he was well over six feet and rangy, with a big head full of white hair and small, deep-set eyes under thick brows.

  “He reminds me of an old polar bear standing on his hind legs,” whispered my colleague, Jay Wilson, as we boarded.

  “Hush, he’ll hear you,” I whispered back.