So did I ever tell you guys about the great four days in New York I had, a bunch of years back?

We were headed in for a convention, one we only planned to attend on Saturday. The rest was being designated for family and friends.

We landed at LaGuardia and took a cab into Manhattan. On our way in our cab is slammed by a truck. Nobody’s hurt, but the cab is dented badly, and so there’s an interval during which cabbie and truck driver are out in the street sharing information and yelling at one another. Half an hour of that.

From our room, actually a fourth floor walk-up apartment, we make plans to meet a friend at someplace Judi’s never been, the Museum of Natural History. We take the subway. The car stops in the tunnel. Turns out that there’s a fire up ahead. After about twenty minutes of not moving the announcement comes on, that we are reversing course and being let out at a prior station. So we get up to the street and take a cab.

Later that evening, after a brilliant Broadway show, THE PILLOWMAN by Martin McDonough, we emerge from the theatre to find torrential rain. Not just rain, torrential rain. We are two blocks away, a distance too short to cab. By the time we get to the walk-up, we are drenched, positively drenched; our shoes are squishing, our clothing is clinging to our skins like moistened Saran-Wrap. We trudge up four stories and find that the apartment is frigid; we have not turned on the heat. It takes another twenty minutes of teeth-chattering misery before we are comfortable.

Next morning. Friday. Our single night’s stay is over and we have to wrestle our luggage down the narrow flight of stairs. I precede Judi, and lose my balance at the top of one flight, tumbling down, rebounding from one wall to the other as I go head over heels down the narrow steps. At the bottom, I slam face-first into the glass door to the street. I fortunately do not break the glass. I just smash my face against it. Miraculously, I am unhurt. Alas, the brand new rolling luggage that went with me is damaged beyond repair.

We visit my sister in Pound Ridge. At the time, she has miniature horses. We go outside and feed them baby carrots. One of them mistakes Judi’s finger for one of those carrots, and bites down hard, drawing blood. It is a pain that lingers the rest of the day.

Skipping Saturday, we move on to Sunday, when we are scheduled to fly back first thing in the morning. We call a cab, which drops an axle just as it is heading into LaGuardia. Another cab has to be called to take us the last few hundred yards.

Reaching the terminal just in time for what is supposed to be our flight, we find out the airline has delayed our flight home for, twelve hours. Twelve hours. And, just to spread the joy, just to spread the joy, the air conditioning in the terminal is broken. We spend those twelve hours in stifling heat, waiting for our plane, and do not get back home until well, well after midnight. Judi’s plan to be well rested when she goes to work the next morning is well and truly stymied.

What a weekend.

Oh, yes, that’s right. I skipped Saturday. What happened on Saturday?

Saturday is the day we got stuck in a crowded elevator with Harlan Ellison.

Tags: True Stories | Category True Stories