by Dave Barry
Chuck puts the helicopter on his American Express card. Our pilot, Norman Knodt, assures me that nothing bad has ever happened to him in a helicopter excepting getting it shot up nine times, but that was in Vietnam, and he foresees no problems with the garbage-barge mission. Soon we are over the harbor, circling the barge, which turns out to be, like so many celebrities when you see them up close, not as tall as you expected. As I gaze down at it, with the soaring spires of downtown Manhattan in the background gleaming in the brilliant sky, a thought crosses my mind: I had better write at least 10 inches about this, to justify our expense re ports.
Later that day, I stop outside Grand Central Station, where a woman is sitting in a chair on the sidewalk next to a sign that says:
TAROT CARDS
PALM READINGS
I ask her how much it costs for a Tarot card reading, and she says $10, which I give her. She has me select nine cards, which she arranges in a circle. “Now ask me a question,” she says.
“Can New York save itself ?” I ask.
She looks at me.
“That’s your question?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“OK,” she says. She looks at the cards. “Yes, New York can save itself for the future.”
She looks at me. I don’t say anything. She looks back at the cards.
“New York is the Big Apple,” she announces. “It is big and exciting, with very many things to see and do.”
After the reading I stop at a newsstand and pick up a COPY Of Manhattan Living magazine, featuring a guide to condominiums. I note that there are a number of one-bedrooms priced as low as $250,000.
Manhattan Living also has articles. “It is only recently,” one begins, “that the word ‘fashionable’ has been used in conjunction with the bathroom.”
DAY THREE: just to be on the safe side, Chuck and I decide to devote Day Three to getting back to the airport. Because of a slipup at the Department of Taxi Licensing, our driver speaks a fair amount of English. And it’s a darned good thing he does, because he is kind enough to share his philosophy of life with us, in between shouting helpful instructions to other drivers. It is a philosophy Of optimism and hope, not just for himself, but also for New York City, and for the world:
“The thing is, you got to look on the liter side, because HEY WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU (very bad word) Because for me, the thing is, respect. If a person shows me respect, then HAH? YOU WANT TO SQUEEZE IN FRONT NOW?? YOU S.O.B.!! I SQUEEZE YOU LIKE A LEMON!! So I am happy here, but you Americans, you know, you are very, you know WHERE IS HE GOING?? You have to look behind the scenery. This damn CIA, something sticky is going on WHERE THE HELL IS THIS STUPID S.O.B. THINK HE IS GOING? behind the scenery there, you don’t think this guy what his name, Casey, you don’t LOOK AT THIS S.O.B. you don’t wonder why he really die? You got to look behind the scenery. I don’t trust nobody. I don’t trust my own self. WILL YOU LOOK AT ...”
By the time we reach La Guardia, Chuck and I have a much deeper understanding of life in general, and it is with a sense of real gratitude that we leap out of the cab and cling to the pavement. Soon we are winging our way southward, watching the Manhattan skyline disappear, reflecting upon our many experiences and pondering the question that brought us here:
Can New York save itself? Can this ultrametropolis—crude yet sophisticated, overburdened yet wealthy, loud yet obnoxious—can this city face up to the multitude of problems besetting it and, drawing upon its vast reserves of spunk and spirit, as it has done so many times before, emerge triumphant?
And, who cares?
A Boy And His Diplodocus
We have been deeply into dinosaurs for some time now. We have a great many plastic dinosaurs around the house. Sometimes I think we have more plastic dinosaurs than plastic robots, if you can imagine.
This is my son’s doing, of course. Robert got into dinosaurs when he was about three, as many children do. It’s a power thing: Children like the idea of creatures that were much, much bigger and stronger than mommies and daddies are. If a little boy is doing something bad, such as deliberately pouring his apple juice onto the television remote-control device, a mommy or daddy can simply snatch the little boy up and carry him, helpless, to his room. But they would not dare try this with Tyrannosaurus Rex. No sir. Tyrannosaurus Rex would glance down at Mommy or Daddy from a height of 40 feet and casually flick his tail sideways, and Mommy or Daddy would sail directly through the wall, leaving comical cartoon-style Mommy-or-Daddy-shaped holes and Tyrannosaurus Rex would calmly go back to pouring his apple juice onto the remote-control device.
So Robert spends a lot of time being a dinosaur. I recall the time we were at the beach and he was being a Gorgosaurus, which, like Tyrannosaurus Rex, is a major dinosaur, a big meat-eater (Robert is almost always carnivorous). He was stomping around in the sand and along came an elderly tourist couple, talking in German. They sat down near us.
Robert watched them. “Tell them I’m a Gorgosaurus,” he said.
“You tell them,” I said.
“Gorgosauruses can’t talk,” Robert pointed out, rolling his eyes. Sometimes he can’t believe what an idiot his father is.
Anybody who has ever had a small child knows what happened next. What happened was Robert, using the powerful whining ability that Mother Nature gives to young children to compensate for the fact that they have no other useful skills, got me to go over to this elderly foreign couple I had never seen before, point to my son, who was looking as awesome and terrifying as a three-year-old can look lumbering around in a bathing suit with a little red anchor sewn on the crotch, and say: “He’s a Gorgosaurus.”
The Germans looked at me the way you would look at a person you saw walking through a shopping mall with a vacant stare and a chain saw. They said nothing.
“Ha ha!” I added, so they would see I was in fact very normal.
They continued to say nothing. You could tell this had never happened to them over in Germany. You could just tell that in Germany, they have a strict policy whereby people who claim their sons are dinosaurs on public beaches are quickly sedated by the authorities. You could also tell that this couple agreed with that policy.
“Tell them I’m a meat-eater,” the Gorgosaurus whispered.
“He’s a meat-eater,” I told the couple. God only knows why. They got up and started to fold their towels.
“Tell them I can eat more in ONE BITE than a mommy and a daddy and a little boy could eat in TWO WHOLE MONTHS,” urged the Gorgosaurus, this being one of the many dinosaur facts he got from the books we read to him at bedtime. But by then the Germans were already striding off, glancing back at me and talking quietly to each other about which way they would run if I came after them.
“Ha ha!” I called after them, reassuringly.
Gorgosaurus continued to stomp around, knocking over whole cities. I had a hell of a time getting him to take a nap that day.
Sometimes when he’s tired and wants to be cuddled, Robert is a gentle plant-eating dinosaur. I’ll come into the living room, and there will be this lump on my wife’s lap, whimpering, with Robert’s blanket over it.
“What’s that?” I ask my wife.
“A baby Diplodocus,” she answers. (Diplodocus looked sort of like Brontosaurus, only sleeker and cuter.) “it lost its mommy and daddy.”
“No!” I say.
“So it’s going to live with us forever and ever,” she says.
“Great!” I say,
The blanket wriggles with joy.
Lately, at our house we have become interested in what finally happened to the dinosaurs. According to our bedtime books, all the dinosaurs died quite suddenly about 60 million years ago, and nobody knows why. Some scientists—this is the truth, it was in Time magazine—think the cause was a Death Comet that visits the earth from time to time. Robert thinks this is great. A Death Comet! That is serious power. A Death Comet would never have to brush its teeth. A Death Comet
could have pizza whenever it wanted.
Me, I get uneasy, reading about the Death Comet. I don’t like to think about the dinosaurs disappearing. Yet another reminder that nothing lasts forever. Even a baby Diplodocus has to grow up sometime.
Young Frankincense
My most vivid childhood memory of Christmas that does not involve opening presents, putting batteries in presents, playing with presents, and destroying presents before sundown, is the annual Nativity Pageant at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Armonk, New York. This was a major tradition at St. Stephen’s, which had quite a few of them. For example, at Easter, we had the Hoisting of the Potted Hyacinths. Each person in the congregation was issued a potted hyacinth, and we’d sing a song that had a lot of “alleluias” in it, and every time we’d get to one, we’d all hoist our pots over our heads. This is the truth. Remember it next time somebody tells you Episcopalians never really get loose.
But the big event was the Nativity Pageant, which almost all the Sunday School kids were drafted to perform in. Mrs. Elson, who had experience in the Legitimate Theater, was the director, and she would tell you what role you would play, based on your artistic abilities. Like, if your artistic abilities were that you were short, you would get a role as an angel, which involved being part of the Heavenly Host and gazing with adoration upon the Christ Child and trying not to scratch yourself. The Christ Child was played by one of those dolls that close their eyes when you lay them down because they have weights in their heads. I know this because Neil Thompson and I once conducted a research experiment wherein we scientifically opened a doll’s head up with a hammer. (This was not the doll that played the Christ Child, of course. We used a doll that belonged to Neil’s sister, Penny, who once tied her dog to the bumper of my mother’s car roughly five minutes before my mother drove the car to White Plains. But that is another story.)
Above your angels, you had your three shepherds. Shepherd was my favorite role, because you got to carry a stick, plus you spent most of the pageant waiting back in the closet with a rope that led up to the church bell and about 750,000 bats. Many were the happy rehearsal hours we shepherds spent back there, in the dark, whacking each other with sticks and climbing up the ladder so as to cause bat emission products to rain down upon us. (“And lo, when the shepherds did looketh towards the heavens, they did see, raining down upon them, a multitude of guano ...)
When it was our turn to go out and perform, we shepherds would emerge from the closet, walk up the aisle, and hold a conference to determine whether or not we should go to Bethlehem. One year when I was a shepherd, the role of First Shepherd was played by Mike Craig, who always, at every rehearsal, would whisper: “Let’s ditch this joint.” Of course this does not strike you as particularly funny, but believe me, if you were a 10-year-old who had spent the past hour in a bat-infested closet, it would strike you as amusing in the extreme, and it got funnier every time, so that when Mike said it on Christmas Eve during the actual Pageant, it was an awesome thing, the hydrogen bomb of jokes, causing the shepherds to almost pee their garments as they staggered off, snorting, toward Bethlehem.
After a couple of years as shepherd, you usually did a stint as a Three King. This was not nearly as good a role, because (a) you didn’t get to wait in the closet, and (b) you had to lug around the gold, the frankincense, and of course the myrrh, which God forbid you should drop because they were played by valuable antique containers belonging to Mrs. Elson. Nevertheless, being a Three King was better than being Joseph, because Joseph had to hang around with Mary, who was played by (YECCCCCHHHHHHH) a girl. You had to wait backstage with this girl, and walk in with this girl, and needless to say you felt like a total wonk, which was not helped by the fact that the shepherds and the Three Kings were constantly suggesting that you liked this girl. So during the pageant joseph tended to maintain the maximum allowable distance from Mary, as though she were carrying some kind of fatal bacteria.
On Christmas Eve we were all pretty nervous, but thanks to all the rehearsals, the pageant generally went off with only 60 or 70 hitches. Like, for example, one year Ernie Dobbs, a Three King, dropped the frankincense only moments before showtime, and he had to go on carrying, as I recall, a Rolodex. Also there was the famous incident where the shepherds could not get out of the bat closet for the longest while, and thus lost their opportunity for that moment of dramatic tension where they confer and the audience is on the edge of its pews, wondering what they’ll decide. When they finally emerged, all they had time to do was lunge directly for Bethlehem.
But we always got through the pageant, somehow, and Mrs. Elson always told us what a great job we had done, except for the year Ernie broke the frankincense. Afterwards, whoever had played Joseph would try to capture and destroy the rest of the male cast. Then we would go home to bed, with visions of Mattel-brand toys requiring six “D” cell batteries (not included) dancing in our heads. Call me sentimental, but I miss those days.
Peace On Earth, But No Parking
Once again we find ourselves enmeshed in the Holiday Season, that very special time of year when we join with our loved ones in sharing centuries-old traditions such as trying to find a parking space at the mall. We traditionally do this in my family by driving around the parking lot until we see a shopper emerge from the mall, then we follow her, in very much the same spirit as the Three Wise Men, who 2,000 years ago followed a star, week after week, until it led them to a parking space.
We try to keep our bumper about four inches from the shopper’s calves, to let the other circling cars know that she belongs to us. Sometimes two cars will get into a fight over whom the shopper belongs to, similar to the way great white sharks will fight over who gets to eat a snorkeler. So we follow our shoppers closely, hunched over the steering wheel, whistling “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” through our teeth, until we arrive at her car, which is usually parked several time zones away from the mall. Sometimes our shopper tries to indicate that she was merely planning to drop off some packages and go back to shopping, but when she hears our engine rev in a festive fashion and sees the holiday gleam in our eyes, she realizes she would never make it.
And so we park and clamber joyously out of our car through the windows, which is necessary because the crack Mall Parking Space Size Reduction Team has been at work again. They get out there almost every night and redo the entire parking lot, each time making the spaces smaller, until finally, they are using, say, a Jell-O box to mark the width between lines. “Let’s see them fit in there,” they say, laughing, because they know we will try. They know that if necessary, we will pull into the parking space balanced on two left-side wheels, like professional stunt drivers, because we are holiday shoppers.
I do not mean to suggest that the true meaning of the holiday season is finding a parking space. No, the true meaning of the holiday season is finding a sales clerk. The way to do this is, look around the store for one of those unmarked doors, then burst through it without warning. There you will find dozens of clerks sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth and whimpering from weeks of exposure to the holiday environment. Of course as soon as they see you, a shopper, they will bolt for the window. This is why you must carry a tape recorder.
“Hold it!” you shout, freezing them in their tracks. “I have a tape recorder here, and unless somebody lets me make my holiday purchases, I’m going to play ‘Frosty the Snowman.’”
Cruel? Inhuman? Perhaps. But you have no choice. Because this is the holiday season, and you have to buy thoughtful gifts for all of your Loved Ones, or they will hate you. Here are some helpful suggestions:
GIFTS FOR CHILDREN: To find out what children want this year, I naturally called up the headquarters of the Toys Backward ‘R’ Us Corporation, which as you parents know is now larger than the Soviet Union. I talked with a spokesperson who told me that last year the corporation’s net sales were $2.4
billion (I assume she meant in my immediate neighborhood).
&
nbsp; The spokesperson told me that one of the hot toys for boys this year, once again, is the G.I. Joe action figure and accessories,” which is the toy-industry code Word for “guns,” as in: “Don’t nobody move! I got an accessory!” The little boy on your list can have hours of carefree childhood fun with this G.I. Joe set, engaging in realistic armed-forces adventures such as having G.I. Joe explain to little balding congressional committee figures how come he had to use his optional Action Shredder accessory.
Another hot item is Captain Power and the Soldiers of the Future, a toy system that—here is a coencidence for you—is featured on a Saturday-morning TV show. The heart of this system is an electronic accessory that the child shoots at the TV screen to actually kill members of the Bio Dread Empire. The spokesperson did not say whether it also would work on Geraldo Rivera.
For little girls, the toy industry is once again going way out on a limb and offering a vast simpering array of dolls. The big news this year, however, is that many of these dolls have computer chips inside them, so they can do the same things that a real baby would do if it had a computer chip inside it. Some dolls even respond according to the time of day. In the morning, they say: “I’m hungry!” In the evening, they say: “I’m sleepy!” And late at night, when the house is dark and quiet, they whisper into the child’s ear: “I think I hear Mr. Eyeball Plucker in the closet again!”
GIFTS FOR GROWN-UPS: I don’t want to get too corny here, but I think the nicest gift you can give a grown-up, especially one you really care about, is not something you buy in a store. In fact, it costs nothing, yet it is a very precious gift, and one that only you can give. I’m talking about your parking space.
Hey Babe Hum Babe Hum Babe Hey ...
The crack of the bat ... the roar of the crowd ... the sight of slug-shaped, saliva-drenched gobs of tobacco seeping into the turf and causing mutations among soil-based life forms. ...