NOSTRADAMUS EAT YOUR HEART OUT (Part Two)

Roxie had forgotten to pick up the wedding cake. She was waiting at the courthouse for the wedding license, so she called me and said, “The bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” “Sure,” I said, wondering why she had picked me instead of one of her cowboy cousins. “I’ll grab a cab and get it.”

Thirty minutes later, the cab arrived. It had no back seat, so the driver helped me put the cake onto the floor. I sat straddling the three-tiered confection all the way back to the hotel. “How can you not have a backseat?” I complained. “I’m getting it fixed,” the driver replied. “Two guys coming home from a costume party last night tore it up. One was the head of a horse and the other was the rear, and somehow the horse’s ass got his tail caught in the seat, pulled the seat out when he left my cab, and a car hit it; so I have to get the seat fixed. Don’t get any cake on the floor!”

We arrived at the hotel just in time, because it was starting to snow. The driver and I put the cake on a luggage rack, and I wheeled it to the front desk. After explaining the situation to the desk clerk, he assured me that he would have someone deliver it to the kitchen.

When I got back to the room, W.S. was already dressed for the wedding and, if we wanted to get to the chapel on time, I only had fifteen minutes to get dressed. This is not much time for a person, who spent the last twenty minutes sitting on the dirty floor of a taxicab while hugging a wedding cake, but I managed to pull myself together, and we ran to our rented car. By now, the gentle snowfall had turned into a full-fledged blizzard.

As we pulled into the chapel parking lot, W.S. said, “It’s pretty dark out here. Why don’t they have any lights on?” Slipping and sliding our way toward the chapel, I said, “They don’t seem to have any lights on in the chapel either. Maybe they think it’s romantic.” “It’s Irving’s fourth wedding. Forget romantic, he should turn on some lights, “ said W.S.

As we entered the chapel, we saw that other than some candles burning at the end of each pew and a couple of candles at the front of the chapel, the place was completely dark.  “What’s going on?” I asked, feeling my way toward what I hoped were two empty seats. “The electricity went off about thirty minutes ago,” hissed a voice in the dark. ”They’d better get married before we all freeze to death.”

I couldn’t really see the bride or groom or hear the minister, because his microphone had died with the electricity. I know a couple got married that day, because I heard someone yell,” Congratulations! Let’s get out of here.” At that, the chapel doors were thrown open and everyone rushed out to the dark parking lot, which by now was covered with little hills of snow, and not a car in sight.

“Where’s my car?” asked a muscular fellow. “My son and I can dig it out if we can find it.” Turning to W.S. he said, “Do you know which one’s my car? I think I parked near you.” W.S. pointed to one of the little hills and said, “I think that’s your car, right there.” The big guy and his son ran back into the chapel, came out with a shovel and began to dig. They took turns shoveling and taking large gulps out of a flask that the son had pulled out of his back pocket.

“Are you sure that’s their car?” I asked W.S. “I’m sure it’s someone’s car,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the younger fellow said, “Dad, I don’t think this is our car.” They stood back, emptied the flask, and examined their excavation. Sure enough, it wasn’t their car. It was ours. They seemed to take it quite well, because the muscular guy started digging out another car, while the younger guy went into the chapel to see if he could filch some sacramental wine.

As we drove away, I said to W.S. “How did you do that?” “I parked under the North Star,” he replied---and next to a lamp post.” The only plowed road was the one that led to the hotel, and everyone ended up there. The bridal couple couldn’t get to the airport for their honeymoon, so they slept in the lobby.

The marriage lasted three months.

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2003

NOSTRADAMUS EAT YOUR HEART OUT (Part One)

For centuries, people have tried to predict the future. They ask you to pick a card, stick out your palm or give them your drained cup of tea. Sometimes they foretell with numbers, stars and even chicken entrails. There’s not much call for onychmancy these days, since reading the future from the reflections in a virgin’s oiled fingernails is often a thankless task. Most women these days hide their reflections under glued nails.

Scientists tell us that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Looking back, that makes the most sense to me. So, when W.S.’s cousin, Irving decided that a fourth wedding would be a good idea, my reaction was, “I’m not buying a new dress!”

Roxie’s family was from West Texas, but the wedding was to be held in a little town in Minnesota, spitting distance from the Canadian border. It was a lovely place, frozen in time---especially in winter--- so naturally the wedding was scheduled for December. We arrived a day before the wedding, since W.S.’s aunt, the three-time-mother-in-law, was throwing a catered prenuptial dinner at the only hotel in town in honor of yet another daughter-in-law. She had begged us to attend, claiming that W.S., her favorite nephew, was the only person who could keep her from having a mental meltdown.

There were fifteen invited out-of-town guests. Everything was progressing as planned. After a reasonable time for cocktails and chitchat about the predicted snowstorm, we sat down and the waiters began to serve the meal. A harpist was plucking, The Simple Joys of Maidenhood in the corner of the room. Everyone was feeling mellow when suddenly with lots of shouting, swearing and shrieking, a mob of thirty unruly Texans burst into the room hooting and hollering, “We’re here. Where’s the grub?”

The groom’s mother paled and asked, “Who are these people?” Whereupon Roxie waved a chicken leg and said, “Oh, these are the cousins from down yonder. Did I forget to tell you they were coming?” “Yes,” said Irving’s mother. “And, I am afraid they are going to have to eat elsewhere.” “No problem, Mam,” said one of the yahoos grabbing a basket of rolls and dumping it into his hat. “We’ll just sit in the other room and you can send us some leftovers.” Irving’s mother sent a platter of sandwiches with the stipulation that the cousins stay on the other side of the wall for the rest of the evening.

There was only one hotel in town, so that’s where everyone stayed. I’m not sure where the Texas folks bunked, but I think it was in their rented bus. The morning of the wedding, we received a frantic call from the groom. “I forgot the license,” he moaned. “It’s Sunday,” said W.S. “Isn’t the courthouse closed?” “Yes,” said Irving, “but Roxie’s first husband was a judge. He pulled some strings, and they are opening the place for us in an hour.” “That was nice of him,” said W.S. “What nice?” said Irving. “When she marries me, he doesn’t have to pay alimony anymore. Can you drive us there in case we need a witness?”

W.S. agreed to accompany the happy couple. I ordered lunch and planned to stay in the room, read a good mystery and hide out until the late afternoon wedding. No such luck. No sooner had I opened my book than the phone rang again. It was Roxie. “I forgot to pick up the cake. We are waiting for the guy to open the courthouse and the bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” (To be continued----)

 Esther Blumenfeld,

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

For people who love jazz, good food and a live-and-let-live attitude, no city can surpass New Orleans. Of course, “The Big Easy” is a gastronomic delight for any professed gourmand, and W.S. and I were looking forward to some classic face stuffing. However, the caper we encountered was not the green pickled flower bud of a Mediterranean bush, but rather the kind of event one would expect when going anywhere with the mountain man, Dick England.

The three of us were relieved that the recognition ceremony for W.S.’s and Dick’s scientific research was short, because we had dinner reservations at a superb restaurant. We hadn’t eaten lunch, and no one can eat an award. The chef’s signature recipe was deboned fish, so W.S. and I ordered the recommended dish. Dick ordered chicken

The meal was delicious and we were relaxed, and laughing, and eating, and talking when suddenly W.S. grabbed his throat and started hacking and coughing. “Can you breathe?” I shouted. He gave an affirmative nod. “Is there a fish bone stuck in your throat?” asked Dick. Another affirmative nod. By now his antics were attracting the attention of other customers in the restaurant.

One man at the bar suggested, “Give him a lemon to suck on.” I fished a piece of lemon out of my water glass and handed it to W.S. who sucked on the lemon, made a sour face and kept clearing his throat. “Try a piece of bread,” yelled a guy at the other end of the bar. I handed W.S. a piece of bread. He buttered it, bit into it, chewed it, swallowed it and kept on making guttural sounds. “Let’s go into the Men’s Room,” Dick suggested. “Maybe you can cough it out.”

Thirty minutes later, they exited from the Men’s Room. W.S. was rubbing his head. “Did you get it out?” I asked. “No,” W.S. croaked. “You are talking,” I said, ”That’s an improvement. What’s the matter with your head?” “You tell her,” said W.S. pointing to Dick.

“I thought that if he laid down on the floor I might be able to do some compressions and push the bone out.” “You were lying on the floor in the Men’s Room?” I said, turning to W.S. He just pointed to Dick. “I was trying to loosen his tie,” said Dick. “You were making it tighter,” W.S. growled. “Then,” Dick continued, “Some guy decided to come out of the stall and bounced the cubicle door off of W.S.’s head.”

Still clutching his throat, W.S. whispered, ”I’ve got a bone in my throat, men are coming in and out of that bathroom and no one even looks concerned.” “We’re in New Orleans,” I said. “What did you expect? Enough of the home remedies, it’s time to go to the hospital and get that bone removed!” After a few; “I don’t want to goes” and “You are goings,” we piled into a taxi and ordered the driver to proceed to the closest emergency room.

It was Saturday night, and most of the real doctors must have been out partying, because the 12-year old in the white coat, who met us at the door, gleefully exclaimed, “Ooh, a fish bone in the trachea. I’ve always wanted to do one of those! Wait here while I get my instrument.”

“Are you a doctor?” I yelled, as he dashed down the hall. “Don’t worry,” he shouted. “I’m an intern.” I watched the color drain from Dick’s face, so I told him to put his head between his knees. The fledgling doctor returned carrying a long, thin instrument that suspiciously resembled an expensive fishing pole. As he got closer and closer to his prey, W.S. clamped his hand over his mouth, gulped a couple of times, jumped off of the examining table and said, “All better. Let’s get out of here!”

Leaving a very disappointed doctor, holding a pole, we returned to the restaurant for dessert. It took awhile to convince the maitre d that we had a reservation, which had been interrupted by a bone from the deboned fish, but twenty dollars later, he finally relented and gave us a table by the kitchen. To celebrate W.S.’s recovery, we ordered a decadent flambé and a bottle of champagne.

“Here’s to the doctor with the magic fishing pole,” said Dick. Lifting my glass and smiling at W.S., I said, “I’d rather offer a toast to the one that got away.”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

GOD BLESS YOU---OR NOT

People who think that professors lead easy lives are sorely mistaken. University politics create extraordinary opportunities to make a fuss about trifling matters, and some departments are in a constant state of war with the administration or with each other; The smaller the stakes---the bigger the battles. Professors are also encouraged to publish their research if they want to advance. And, to add to their discomfort, they have to deal with all of those pesky students. If teachers want to earn extra money, sometimes they establish consulting practices on the side. What a life!

I had met most of the beleaguered faculty in W.S.’s department, but had never met his new major professor. When W.S. introduced me to Professor Seltzer, I was shocked. Later I said to W.S., “I can’t believe it,” Professor Seltzer was engaging and totally relaxed. He was smiling and actually had a twinkle in his eye. Why is that?” “He’s retiring the end of the year,” W.S. replied. “It means I have to be finished before he leaves. If not, I have to start working on my dissertation with another professor, and we may never get out of here.”

W.S. had been awarded another graduate assistantship, which meant indentured servitude to Professor Seltzer. His duties involved helping Dr. Seltzer with his academic ventures. It wasn’t a bad deal, because W.S. would help him with his research and sometimes be listed as a co-author on some of the written papers. Then, W.S. would be sent hither and yon to report on their analyses. Dr.Seltzer wasn’t traveling. He was busy marking days toward retirement off of his calendar.

So, when I came home from work and saw W.S. packing a suitcase, I knew he was headed out to present a paper at another professional meeting. “Where to this time?” I asked.  “I wish you could come with me,” he replied. “I’m off to Denver, and have made plans to have dinner with Jeffrey and Diana. After their wedding, our former bachelor friend and his bride had moved from Chicago to Denver.

I would have liked to join W.S. on this jaunt, but was accumulating my vacation time for another meeting that was to be held in New Orleans. W.S. and Dick England, the mountain owner, were both going to receive an award for their scientific research, and I wanted to be there to make sure that Dick didn’t go near any soft shell crab before the presentation. So, I stayed home and W.S. went to Denver.

A few days later, I picked him up at the airport. When he got into the car, I asked how things went. “Did you see me on TV?” he asked. “No,” I said. “I haven’t had the television set on since you left. What happened?”

“Well,” he began, “there were two conventions scheduled at the hotel. One was my meeting, and the other was a get-together of members of The Atheist Movement of America. I presented my paper on, ‘The Readability of Tax Returns,’ while at the same time Madelyn Murray O’Hair was devoutly disclaiming God in the ballroom. Her appearance brought out the holy protesters, and there was a lot of screaming going on outside.”  “So, I don’t get it,” I replied. “Why were you on television?”

“It was all Jeffrey’s fault. He told me he’d pick me up at the front entrance of the hotel at five o’clock, and you know Jeffrey. He’s always late! So, I was standing there, minding my own business, when some guy started yelling that I was going to burn in Hell. Then another man said that I shouldn’t listen to people of that ilk, and the other man thought he had called him a nasty name, and hit him over the head with his ‘I Love Jesus’ sign, and then the police arrived. The religious and the non-religious were all screaming at each other, and I was telling both sides to ‘Leave me alone!”’

“Some reporter stuck a microphone up to my mouth, and asked my opinion, and I said, ‘I don’t have an opinion, but if you want to hear about the readability of tax forms, I can tell you about that. He didn’t. When Jeffrey picked me up, he asked, ‘What’s going on?’ and I told him that my talk had caused quite a controversy.’”

All in all, it was a taxing experience. A clap of thunder could be heard in the distance.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

TUESDAY AND THE REST OF THE WEEK (Part Two)

While I was waiting for a cab, a bleeding motorcycle rider entered the emergency room of the hospital. The nurse said, “Glock, You get into another fight? “This time it wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled. She handed him a towel and said, “Apply some pressure on that cut and the doctor will stitch it up as soon as he is finished with the kid who has a green bean up his nose. Before you sit down check your knuckles at the desk. You know the drill.”

I thought that the little nurse had lots of moxie confronting this brute, but he complied and tossed a pair of brass knuckles on her desk. “Is that all?” she asked. He then pulled a large switchblade knife out of his pants and added that to the stash.

There were plenty of empty seats in the waiting room, but he chose to sit down right next to me.  “Hi,” I said. “I hope you aren’t in too much pain.” “Nah,” he replied. “Last week the doc had to stitch up my stomach. Want to see the scar?” “No thank you,” I replied. “You have some interesting tattoos,” I said, changing the subject. “I especially like the one with the skull that has ‘Mom” written on it.”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Everyone has hearts, I thought that the skull was more original.” The door swung open again, and this time a man wearing an electric blue evening gown, long white gloves, and a rhinestone tiara limped in. He was carrying one of his shoes because the four-inch heel had broken off. He was weeping and his mascara was running down his face.  He slapped his handbag on the nurse’s desk and sobbed. “Can I wait here? My friend was just brought in by ambulance.” The nurse said, “Give me your friends name, and I’ll tell the doctor that you are out here. Take a seat.”

“My name is Patti,” he said. I didn’t catch his friend’s name, but after he whispered it to the nurse, he looked around at all of the empty seats in the waiting room, glanced at the biker, and decided to sit next to me. All these empty seats, and I was stuck with a bleeding biker and a weeping man in a ball gown. Tears were still running down his cheeks along with his melting makeup.

I could see that his dress had been torn at the sleeve, and I handed him some tissues and whispered, “Your bra strap is showing.” “Thank you,” he sniffled adjusting his dress. “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said. “ I hope it’s nothing serious.” “Oh, no,” he said. “My friend fainted. I was crowned, ‘Queen of the Night’ and Temper fainted.” “Temper?” I asked. “It’s short for temperamental. Cute, huh?”

“Very cute, Patty-cakes,” the biker interrupted, “Doc better not touch your friend before he stitches me up. I was here first.” “Well, I never,” Patti sniffed. “I’ll bet!” Biker responded. “You are a very rude person,” said Patti. “You want to see rude, Sweetheart?” Biker responded, shaking his bloody fist. By now, they were both leaning in towards me. I was getting woozy from the bikers bourbon breath and nauseous from Patti’s overdose of Lilly of the Valley perfume.

 “You’d better keep that towel on your wound,” I suggested to the leather-clad brute, and I whispered to Patti, “His name is Glock, and I don’t think it’s short for glockenspiel, so I suggest you calm down.” They both sat back fuming, but quiet. Glock was flexing his biceps, and I sat fascinated as Mom’s skull danced a little jig.

Finally, the nurse came out from behind her desk and said, “Okay, I want the three of you out of my waiting room. Patti, your friend is ready to go home. Glock, the doctor is waiting to stitch you up. Don’t forget to pick up your toys on the way out---and YOU”---she said, glaring at me. “Your cab is here.”

“Goodbye, Patti. Goodbye Glock,” I shouted as I ran for the door. Patti responded nicely. I think Glock said something inappropriate, because the last thing I saw was the nurse chasing him down the hall with a very large needle.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006