Flying Victuals

The summer of my 10th year was a high point.  Nana and Woody, my grandparents, flew me to New York City, First Class.  In a roomy reclining seat, while sipping a Shirley Temple, I learned the history of Manhattan Island.

"Those Injuns gave away the entire place for $24. Can you believe that?"  Woody drawled.  He turned over an embossed TWA cocktail napkin and proceeded to draw a map of New York City, showing me how the Streets and the Avenues were on a grid system. 

"Ain’t hard to git lost here if you understand this", he said. 

Later, as we drove into Manhattan, I looked out of the limousine window.  The place was alien to a kid from Southern California.  Never before had I seen skyscrapers cozying up to one another, like a crowd of lemmings. The shadows they cast produced unnatural light in the early morning.  Where was the sun?  I couldn’t see it, but stepping out of the car in front of the Waldorf Astoria it slapped me, like a hot wet blanket across my forehead. I felt an abnormal stickiness begin to affect my legs and arms.  So this was humidity. 

"There goes my hair", mused Nana.

Here are some notable facts about the trip:

Fact 1.  Woody, who worked for McCullough Oil, was in New York to speak before the American Stock Exchange where miraculously, he lost all traces of a Texan accent.

Fact 2.  I had never been inside such a fancy hotel in my life.  The penthouse suite of the Waldorf was a giant apartment with sweeping rooms and overwhelming views. It had a grand piano where I immediately hammered out 20 dissonant versions of Chopsticks.  

Fact 3. I met my eleven year-old cousin Sharon (pronounced Shaaaaaron) at her other grandmother’s apartment on 720 Park Avenue.  From our first round of Backgammon, an instant rivalry was born. 

Fact 4.  720 Park Avenue made the Waldorf look like our downtown Santa Monica Sears. 

Fact 5.  Woody threw a hamburger in the direction of the room service attendant.

Yes, you read that correctly.

The cold hamburger had arrived 45 minutes after being ordered. I suspect he was jet-lagged and h’angry, that hybrid of hunger and anger that sets most of us on edge.  Regardless, he ranted at its delivery, scaring away the poor room service guy.

The rubbery hamburger slid down the striped wallpaper of the morning room and after doing two elliptical turns rested on the floor.

"I don’t give a God Damn", he yelled when my grandmother reprimanded him over his temper tantrum. 

"I don’t want a frozen burger".

Woody's outburst was more dramatic than violent. He could be childish and petulant.  He was an instigator of bad behavior too, especially when it came to my younger brother.

Months later, back in LA, our family gathered for a Sunday dinner at Nana and Woody’s house.  My brother Jason, nearly four, was an impish sprite and Woody adored him.  Dressed in leather vest, cowboy hat and chaps, Jason arrived at their house with a tiny pee stain down the side of his little leg.

"Did our Cowboy have an accident? Nana inquired.

"Nope, my horse sweated" Jason replied.

"Atta Boy" Woody laughed.

"Yee Haw!" Woody cried when Jason ran circles around me in the living room chasing me with his cap-loaded pistol.  I had been innocently coloring and resisted the urge to clomp him on the head with my Big Box of Crayolas.

"Giddy up Partner", he shouted as Jason, galloping over to me on a pretend pony, swiped the Fritos from my palm, laughing with devilish glee.

In a pinnacle of misbehavior, Jason took the key from the gas fireplace and hurled it off into the ivy hillside.

Woody applauded. 

"Ain’t he a smart boy?" said Woody, cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

We sat down in the dining room, the formality of the seating arrangement incongruent with our bowls of chili and cornbread.

"Jason, you got girls in your school?"  Woody asked

Jason nodded.

"When I was young we had inkwells in the classroom and I’ll be damned if I didn’t have fun dipping the braids of those girls into ink".  

It was then that Jason took a spoonful of chili.  Filling it to the brim, he turned it upright and flicked it across the table where it landed smack dab on Woody’s face.

Woody was stunned into silence as the chili dripped down his basset hound cheeks.  Jason grinned, thinking he was being clever.  Nana was furious as she watched the linens and the upholstered dining room chairs absorb orange chili oil.  Mother shot up out of her seat and dragged Jason by the arm, the string of his cowboy hat catching his neck as they went into the kitchen.

"Well I hope you are happy",  Nana said to Woody.

Her sarcasm was not lost on me.  Silently, I was giddy and ecstatic.  The golden haired child, who had eclipsed me since his arrival, had finally gotten in trouble. Within seconds, I fantasized about how he would be grounded.  They would take away his Big Wheel, that had to be a given.  Maybe he would lose TV privileges.  My mind danced in a feast of scenarios that would make him miserable.  I could hardly wait to watch it unfold. 

Mother returned to the table flushed with embarrassment while Jason remained in the kitchen.  Dinner quietly resumed.  Conversation stunted, I ate with gusto, admiring the cactus shaped cornbread on my plate, slathered in honey butter so sweet it was like dessert.  Could life get any better?

Not really.

It wasn’t long before a commotion was heard.  Growls and then tears as Jason emerged from the kitchen, his upper lip spouting blood.   One of the dozy Shih Tzu’s had refused his attentions so he was rewarded with a bite.  Even the dogs have had enough of his behavior, I thought to myself.  

"Oh my God, Jason!" Mother said, as she shot up from her chair again.  The flying chili incident was forgotten in a flurry of bloody dishtowels and conjectures about plastic surgeons.  Gathering our belongings, we were off to St. John’s so that the little cowboy could get stitched up.  I climbed into the car, frustrated that the Punishment of a Lifetime had never materialized.