Not At All How I Imagined This

I said goodbye to my father today. 
He could not be roused out of his sleep. 
I kept delaying because I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want this to happen like this. Truthfully though, I don’t think I had spent much time “imagining” how this would go down at all. But in the end it was what God deemed would happen. In that moment it was just me, Mom, and Dad in an ICU at a hospital at a few minutes before noon on a Wednesday morning in January. 
The dude next to me on this flight home must think I’m nuts. I’m stifling tears while I type on my phone. There’s a gin and tonic or two on the tray in front of me alongside my laptop which is playing an episode of Air Disasters. Hey, it’s one of my favorite shows. Who cares that I’m watching a show about planes crashing while I’m on a plane. Face those fears, son. 
Mom and I had gone over to the hospital this morning. My brother-in-law gave us a ride. He had his three sons with him. My nephews are young lads – 11, 10, and 9 years-old. The three boys, who are such fine young men, were sneaked into the hospital so they could see their grandfather. I stood there for a minute with them before the nurse “suggested” we take them out to the waiting room. “Too high a risk of infection,” she said. What struck me was how optimistic they were. The innocence is perfect. “Pa, they said, we hope you get better soon so you can come play with us again.”
These boys think he’s coming home. Also, my sister, having learned from our father, clearly raised these boys like they were the Fighting Sullivan’s based on their demeanor and the fedoras they were wearing. Good going, Dad. 
They left. 
I took my mom downstairs for some coffee while the nurses put a feeding tube into my dad. 
Then we came back. Mom sat by the foot of his bed. I stood near the end of the bed where his head was. Something… I don’t know what it was. I turned toward his head in time to see him open his eyes very wide. “Oh hey, Daddy.” I said to him. He mumbled something that sounded like “Hey” back to me, then closed his eyes and put his head back down. 
I knew it was time. I had decided at the very last minute that I should indeed return to my own family. To not do so would go against everything the man taught me. My family must come first. I need to be present to them. Waiting around for his death would be wrong for me since my wife and children needed me. I needed to go.
My dad never, ever made me feel like I needed to be brave. He never played the “man card” thing with me. Growing up, he was always practical but above all very loving and very finely in tune with human decency. I knew it wouldn’t bother him what I was about to do. 
I looked at my watch and knew it was time. 
I leaned over his head. It was strange making that determination – that this was the moment. I just knew it would have to take place sooner or later and American Airlines wasn’t going to wait for me to make up my mind. Resting my head on his bald skull, I kissed him. Then I put my head down. And I started sobbing. After a moment I said “Goodbye Daddy. I love you.” I knew that my mom was probably also very sad seeing her son shaking like this.
I felt the warmth of his head. Even though it’s been months since he lit his pipe I swear I could smell Prince Albert. I held on as long as I could. 
Finally I walked over to Mom and gave her a kiss and told her it was time for me to go. We had a brief conversation. Told her I’d be back soon, I’m sure. She’s a rock. She told me the other night “I can’t imagine life without your father but I don’t want him to suffer anymore.” Her devotion to him is so beautiful. 
She told me “He was always so proud of you.” That made me want to cry again. I told her “He was a good father. It’s hard not to be a good son.”
I’ll see you again, Dad. I love you. 

Musings from 35,000 Feet

Yes, I’m on a plane.

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‘Bout to get my flyin’ on…

Where am I headed? Well, let’s start with a quick recap. I started writing this blog for my kids. Everything I write here is because of them. Ultimately I want them to be able to read this and see how perfect a life they made for me. So even when it seems I’m writing a funny post with no bearing on their lives it all still comes back to them. I can laugh because they exist and they make me smile.

I’m headed to the Fatherland. Regular readers of this space (both of you) know that I’m referring to New Jersey. Technically I’m headed to LaGuardia – a “nifty” little airfield at the far reaches of Queens, NY. When you have to book a ticket with 24 hours notice you can’t be choosy.  When it first opened as Glenn Curtis Field in 1929 (work with me here, I’m trying to teach, you twat), Queens was a sleepy borough of about 50 residents and a handful of chickens.  By 1960, former New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia’s wish to be immortalized by a slower-than-molasses, aging, crumbling public works project would come to fruition with “LGA Phase 1”, alternately referred to as “the building of the Central Terminal Building”.  In fact, in the 1960’s this facility was seen as the airport of the future.  Unfortunately for the good people of Queens, the future held such things as the Jumbo Jet, airline deregulation, and not-asbestos.

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She (they) followed me onboard, honest.

I once had a friend – a makeup artist on a television show on which I worked – refer to Queens, his home borough, as, and please pardon the expression, “the most f*cked borough”.  “Where else could you have 69th St. intersect both 69th Pl. and 69th Rd. all at once?” he opined.

Where in the hell was I?  Ah yes…

I’m flying in to see my dad. He’s had a massive stroke. I think my mom said the doctor called it a “big” stroke. Apparently not calling it “massive” makes it sound less severe. But it’s serious enough that I got the ticket and here I am.  Dear readers, I’m handling this, as I always do, because the two people who gave me life taught me to do this, with humor.  Work with me.  And a few paragraphs back when I referred to you as a twat, I meant it as the British do.  Slipping back to my story…  Dad’s always been competitive and I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of teenage boy, bawdy joke hiding in the fact that he’d be pissed to not have it called a “massive stroke”.  For the record he had a massive stroke once before when I was 16 and he was 56.  Miraculously he recovered from that one almost immediately.  I don’t see that happening this time.

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If I understand, we’ll land and then the Sharks and Jets will go at it.

Kids, when you read this years from now I want you to know something. I love my father. Our relationship (his and mine) is not like yours and mine. We’ve bonded over bizarre things. I figured out how to make high-end cocktails for him. He gave me a copy of the book The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy for Christmas when I was in 7th grade. See? There you go. Children, he’s a good man and everything I know about how to be your father comes from him. I know I’m not perfect. I don’t think I can say that about him. And he taught me a sense of responsibility and of family and of just doing what needs to be done.

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Here’s my dad, my twin sister, and me during one of my first forays into an airport.  So it was HE who started this whole obsession!

And I read that book cover to cover several times so all of you who know me in real life and wonder how I know something about everything, well there’s a small glimpse at an answer.

That’s why I’m on a flight to LaGuardia on a Monday night. I have a row entirely to myself which is good because I don’t think I’d want seatmates seeing me like this. I really want a cigarette. Sorry. Steam of consciousness. I hate that style popularized by Stephen Crane. I can actually hear my dad telling me some fun fact about Crane and how he grew up in Newark like us and how Civil War vets would have sworn Crane was old enough to have fought in the war because his writing was so vivid.

Let’s divert a moment.

I’m watching a documentary on the plane about Anthony Weiner. Pig. Disgusting cretin. As Dad would say “the man will never get hemorrhoids. He’s a perfect asshole.” And yet… this film is so fascinating. It’s about New York more than Weiner. It’s about my home. It’s the nexus of the universe wherein I grew up. And I love New York so much. The people – though we’d probably disagree on 9 out of 10 things politically – are good people and I miss them sometimes. It’s nice to know that in an hour I’ll be flying in over the East River, over the greatest city on earth. I’ll see the Freedom Tower and Roosevelt Island and Queens. I just wish it wasn’t for this reason. I’m a little scared because I don’t know what condition he’s in.

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Watching Weiner.  If that was my face I’d probably want to showcase other parts of my anatomy too.  Couldn’t be any worse.

Man this Weiner is fascinating.

The flight attendant just gave me two drinks and only charged me for one. God bless him.  Unfortunately I think he wants something from me that ain’t never gonna’ happen.

There was a woman standing behind me at the gate back in Texas prattling on and on with someone on her phone.  Conversation went something like this.  “Then these two self-righteous jerks tried to tell me all passive-aggressive that the two of us shouldn’t have kids and then my husband was like ‘Well we can but they’ll never learn music.  I forbid it.’  And I was all ‘Who do you think you are?  I’m a musician and you suck.  I seriously wanted to cut her.'”  It was too perfect.  I had been hoping for something for paragraph 14 since I arrived at the terminal and here this lady was just spouting it forth for me.  I didn’t care if she could see me.  I put my coffee down, took out my phone, and started jotting down every word she said.  You’re welcome.

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The Big Apple at night, in January, from 9,000 feet, when your dad’s had a stroke.

This flight is bumpy. The captain came on before we took off and announced it was not going to be an easy flight.

My God this movie is incredible. It’s like a train wreck. I want to watch but I can’t. But I must.

My nephew is picking me up at the airport. He’s a rideshare driver too. He’s agreed not to charge me for the pick-up. I’m laughing at that prospect. He’d NEVER charge me.  Or I’d kick his ass.

What else could I tell you? I have some fun pictures to run through my flights entertainment options. They kind of describe my flight style these days.

But the reason I started writing this is to ask your prayers.

And now that I’ve done that I think I can get back to my Weiner. 

Bad Casting – Crossing the Line

What the heck… let’s do a Daily Post prompt!  Tonight’s theme is “crossing“.

This evening I sat down to watch a movie with my lovely wife.  She enjoys movies.  I enjoy being in her presence.  It’s a win-win situation.

Earlier in the evening she had sent me to the nearest Redbox to fetch said movie.  I must say I was taken aback when she told me what it was I’d be getting.

“It’s called Florence Foster What now?” I said in bemusement.  “And it stars whom?”

“Meryl Streep,” replied my wife.

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The set of “Florence Jenkins Foster Griffith Joyner Kersey”. Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons, public domain

“What’s that old broad doing playing Flo-Jo?  For starters I’m pretty sure she’s not a runner.  Flo-Jo was an Olympic queen and an American icon!  Also, Meryl Streep isn’t black and has zero sass as far as I know.  Come to think of it, there’s really not much of a movie in Flo-Jo’s life, now is there?”  I immediately conjured up images of watching women darting around a 400 meter track for two hours.

I may have been drinking.

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Meryl Streep preparing for the role of a lifetime. Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

In fact it was halfway through the movie before I realized this was a tale of a woman with too much money and not many genuine friends.  She thought she could sing.  The ears of anyone within shouting distance knew she couldn’t.  But that didn’t stop this Flo-Jo.  A humorous concert at Carnegie Hall and then she read a bad review in the Post, slipped, and bumped her head.  She died.

I liked the black Flo-Jo much better.  She won gold and made us proud to be Americans.  And a bad review wouldn’t have killed her.

Have I crossed the line?

Did Meryl Streep cross the line when she dared to portray running royality?

Did Hugh Grant really think we’d believe he was Carl Lewis?

I’m crossing this movie off my list.

On the Second Day of Rideshare…

Life Lessons from Mom and Sis

I have such incredibly fond (and fun) memories of growing up outside of my mom’s native Manhattan, especially at Christmastime.  I believe I was 4 years-old the first time I rode in a taxi.  Something about that experience stuck with me all these years.  We had a tradition of heading into “the City” a few days before Christmas to visit Macy’s at Herald Square where the one and only Santa spends his final few weeks before jetting out on Christmas Eve to deliver toys around the world.  Oh believe me, even as a tot I had worked out the details.  Clearly the big guy had left the workshop in the capable hands of Mrs. Claus and some elves.  It was very important to him to be in New York and all.  Our trips invariably involved a cab ride from say, Macy’s at 34th and 5th to Rockefeller Center (47th and 6th).  There was something mystical about my mom or my older sister hailing that cab.  I took in every detail for I knew I would do this myself one day.  It was my heritage as a son of a daughter of the Big Apple.  She would step ever so slightly toward the curb, right arm firmly raised, a look of determination on her suddenly steely face with a touch of no-nonsense attitude exuding from her person.  With this transformation in her form she could get a stranger to remove his car from four lanes of jam-packed traffic and come directly to us.  I listened as she said in a most commanding voice “Rockefeller Center, please – get us right up to the tree if you can, and avoid 6th.  Nothing but tourists this time of year.”  And like that we were whisked away through the magnificently gritty canyons of the greatest city on earth.

Many years later I would employ that same technique while working in Manhattan.  When I wasn’t feeling the overexertion of my legs or just didn’t want to go down the subway steps, or had been at a bar with friends I’d step out toward the curb and raise my right arm just the way they had years early.  There is a trick to it.  You have to lean in just the right way, you see.

You also have to be white and well dressed.

Then they’ll do anything for you.  I swear it’s true.

Never in all those adventures did I see myself driving other people as a glorified cabby.  And yet the world of ridesharing beckoned and I answered the call.  Unlike the cabbies of my childhood I will let anyone in my ride.  I mean, this is Texas after all.  Tejanos, Anglos, Kenyans, Seventh Day Adventists…  It’s not like your fare isn’t already secured before I pick you up and hey, you don’t have to hail me.  I’ll come right to your door and flash a smile too.  Look Mom, I did it!  Where was I?  Ah yes…

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This guy has it all wrong…  Photo credit

Back to the Grind

My second day of driving went pretty well.  I can’t complain.  Being Saturday afternoon things were a bit slower.  The wife, ever so tender in her encouragement, walked past me in our kitchen, slapped me on the butt, and said: “Get out there and earn, stud.”  Honestly I wasn’t sure where she was going with that at first.  Am I being prostituted?  St. Nicholas, help us…  He’s the patron saint of reformed prostitutes, by the way.  By the way, there’s no evidence that there’s anything “reformed” about me.

My first fare was a lady and her teenage daughter waiting at a dentist office nearby.  They needed a ride to a shoe store.  Duh.  If I had a dime for every time I ran out to Shoe Carnival right after a root canal I’d be filthy rich.  This was one of those short rides the rideshare companies are famous for.  In fact I think somewhere around 50% of their rides are under two miles.  Not a problem, though, since I got pinged right away.  My next fare was a woman in the shopping plaza across the highway.  She wanted a ride home (also about two miles away).  She also wanted a driver who spoke Ecuadorian.  I faked it.  It worked.

Now my third and final ride of the afternoon was a lovely couple heading to an office Christmas party downtown.  They reminded me instantly of the couple in O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi in that he had to call upon his experience as a fighter pilot in the war and she on her skill as a stewardess to land a doomed jetliner in Chicago.  Also, he wore no pocket watch and her hair was disgusting.  They boarded the vehicle and — I’m sorry, I’ve just been informed the couple previously described are actually Ted and Elaine from the movie Airplane!  No difference.  These two were quite intriguing.

We circled the block on our way back out to the main street.  Immediately I heard their whispered conversation.  “You want me to drop you back at home?” said the husband.  She mumbled something indistinct.  I’m not sure but it may have had something to do with a twisted ankle.  “Seriously, I can drop you off or we can just cancel,” he continued.  I was getting a little nervous.  Was something wrong with my car?  With me?  “Hold up,” he said to me while raising his arm.  I stopped the car.  They whispered more to each other for about thirty seconds.  Then he waved his arm and gave me the go-ahead.  I still have no idea what that was about but I worried the whole ride that they would find some great fault with my driving or my car or my hair and give me a bad review.

And this, my friends, is why the emotionally fragile should not take on jobs where they have to not care what people think of them.  Where was that rock-solid beacon of confidence my mother raised so well?  Where was the guy who, even though he may have had one too many gin and tonic’s, still had the perfect right-arm-raise, steely and determined gaze and posture to get a man in a yellow car to cut across three lanes of traffic to take me to Penn Station?  What happened to him?!

Oh that’s right.  White and well-dressed.

I dropped them off.

They gave me five stars.

I need to stop caring what people think about me.  I’m a flawless driver and my car smells of Christmas and Jesus.  They are lucky to have been in my presence.

I think I’ll try doing a few airport runs in my other car.  It seats more, is almost brand new, and it’s black.  That apparently gets you a higher fare.

O. Henry, eat your skanky heart out.

Oh What Fun It Is To Rideshare!

For some time now I’ve been looking for ways to supplement my stellar Catholic school teacher income.  My dreams of a principalship crushed by the man and hacked by the Russians (isn’t everything hacked by the Russians these days?) I lowered the bar and began searching for fruit hanging just a bit closer to the ground.

And that is how, this weekend, I began my new second job as a rideshare driver.

And in this effort I may have just stumbled upon the most lucrative fruit of all.  Rather than “hanging low to the ground” this baby was just lying there, somewhat trampled underfoot by the masses.  I was deliberately cautious in whom I confided my plans to “drive”.  Wouldn’t want people picking their mouths off the floor while mouthing “why on earth?” almost under their breath.  I’ll tell you why.  It’s certainly not because someone I know is turning 2(5×4) in the next few months.  1/2(80)?  It wouldn’t have anything to do with wanting a few new firearms to add to my collection.  It could never be that I’ve been looking for a new source of writing material and knew I’d struck gold with this one.

But here I am, the first of my hopefully long series of rides under my belt, and I’m happy to relay my experiences to you.

Getting Started

The sign up process was incredibly easy.  Using this particular company’s app I was able to tell them I am a safe driver, have insurance, am witty, have  a chiseled body, and am generally a nice man all of the time.  And they bought it.  Within a day my documentation, which consisted of a few uploaded photos of my license and registration stickers, had been approved.  Almost immediately I started getting texts from the company gently urging me to get started.

“Hey schmuck, you gonna’ do this thing or what?” was my favorite.

As if the texts weren’t enough, my lovely wife who still has no idea why I’m doing this in earnest would drop helpful hints.  “Honey,” she’d say in a gentle tone, “Time is money and I don’t see your butt behind the wheel right now…”

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I stand on the shoulders of giants.  Photo Credit

I, however, was waiting for the most opportune moment.  I was ready, just not mentally ready.  But the moment did strike.  On Friday afternoon I got home from my real job early after proctoring some end-of-term exams.  I took the car to the carwash and got her bathed.  I snagged a can of something called Ozium from an acquaintance with a prodigious weed habit to air out the scent of legal tobacco from the carpet fibers.  It worked too!  I even anticipated that my passengers – riders they’re called – might get thirsty and neatly placed two fresh bottles of water in the cupholders in the back.  I thought of getting totally festive and stringing candy canes from the seatbacks but ultimately thought better of myself.

That Awkward First Time

When 7:00 came (not sure why I chose that time other than having finished my workout) I switched the app on.  I was a little nervous.  I had never let complete strangers into my vehicle and wasn’t sure exactly who would be riding with me tonight.  I envisioned a raucous run of drunken partiers needing rides home after a night on the town.  Then again, I figured, it’s only 7.  They’re probably still sober and just heading out.

Within 30 seconds I got my first ping.  It was a woman (judging by the name though you never can tell these days) calling for a ride from about two miles away.  The thing with this service is that you don’t know where that rider wants to go until you get there.  I followed the app’s GPS practically to her front door – an apartment complex where I’d have to sneak past the gate on someone else’s code.  Sent her a text from the app so my real number didn’t show on her phone.

This is your rideshare.  I’m in the lot with my hazards on.  Take your time.

Moments later a young couple came to the car and got in.  I looked down at the app and noticed that, having accepted the fare, I could now see their destination.  It was an upscale shopping mall about twenty miles away.  I had been warned by a nephew who also drives for this company not to speak much.  Apparently when one is so broke she can’t afford a car and needs a high school teacher to drive her to Nieman’s to buy Christmas gifts, one doesn’t want to not keep decorous custom.  I said simply “heading to the mall tonight?” and got an affirmative response.  For the next thirty minutes I said nothing.

The funny thing is that the couple in my back seat did have a bit to say.  However, they said it in hushed whispers.  Oh I sure heard what they said though not every detail.  Something about what they were going to get Marisol (they settled on a bike), what they’d get Julio (an X Box), and something about how Rafael, who I gather is a toddler, has suddenly gained an interest in Jesus.  That’s Jesus as in the Savior of the human race, not Jesus the Spanish boy’s name after the other Jesus.

I dropped them at the mall, switched the app off and headed home.  I had only wanted tonight to get my first ride out of the way in much the same way a young man just wants to snag that first kiss and then suddenly loses interest in actually dating the girl.  Wait, no.  Forget that.  I drove home, remembered that I had not actually done a workout, and so I did a workout.  I did say that I’m chiseled.  Once showered, my wife turned to me and said in a tender way “Babe, clock’s tickin’.”

Love Will Keep Us Together

I switched the app back on and got a call.  This time it was a couple of guys in their early 20’s.  They lived nearby and were heading to the same area as that mall to see a movie.  I was feeling more confident.  When they got in I turned around and said “Welcome, gentlemen.  Help yourself to a bottle of water.  If you need the temperature adjusted just let me know.  If there’s anything else I can help you with just say so.”  That last sentence almost proved to be my undoing.  “How ’bout some tunes, man?” the one guy said.  “Anything in particular?” I asked.  “You got any hip hop?”  I hit a few presets.  Immediately came blaring from my speakers Captain and Tenille’s Love Will Keep Us Together.  I laughed.  “Clearly, that ain’t hip hop,” I said.  They laughed, yet strangely agreed that they liked the song and said I should let it play.  I dropped them off and decided to wait it out in the parking lot until the next call came in.  It was now about 9PM on a Friday night.  The club-goers were already at their clubs.  The movie-goers were in the theaters.  Five minutes of waiting and I figured my luck had run out.  I would head home.

How’s That for Irony?

As I was about to head up the ramp to the interstate I got pinged.  OK, I thought.  Let’s see what this one is.  I accepted and followed the navigator to another apartment complex.  It was a bit sketchy but whatever.  A woman came out to the car and asked me if I could give her a few minutes.  She wanted to say good bye to her kids.  When she came back out we started our drive.  I could see she was headed downtown, a fifteen mile drive.  All of this so far was great for me.  These three trips are all longer by far than the average rideshare journey.  More money for my birthday party fund, I mean, for our household budget.  Who am I kidding?  That person stopped reading this blog long ago so I’m safe.

Sticking to my “no-talkie” rule I only spoke to my fare when she spoke up telling me to ignore the navigator in favor of a route that would have less traffic.  Seemed logical.  If she didn’t know what she was talking about it would take longer and I’d get paid more.  About five minutes in and we were on the highway.  And she spoke up again.  “How long have you been doing this?”  “Actually,” I said, “It’s my first night.”  “Wow, I’d never know,” she said.  I took that as a compliment.  I wonder if it was my ability to drive my own car that belied my skill as a driver of my own car.  “I’m a cabbie myself on my way to work tonight.  You guys are cheaper than our cabs so that’s how I get to work.”  Holy shit.  How’s that for irony?  She proceeded to tell me her life story.  She’s eight month’s pregnant, has three other little girls at home and, as mentioned, works as a cabbie overnight.  She did give me some tips of the trade, telling me where the best locations and times for maximal payout are.

She also asked if she could use my phone to call work and tell them she was running late.  Here’s where my inexperience kicked in.  “Sure,” I said, without thinking.  And the moment the phone passed into her hands I thought of something.  What if this chick is simply going to swipe “cancel” on my app, let me drive her to work, and I won’t get paid and not even know it?  I envisioned her dancing a jig atop a yellow cab in a seedy garage as she regaled her co-workers.  “I fooled that gringo!  Tryin’ to steal our jobs and cut in on our turf!  Death to rideshare!”  Fortunately, she actually called work and then handed me my phone.  Won’t make that mistake again.  She even politely asked if she could take an extra bottle of water on her departure.

The Downtown Party Girls

Fully in the swing of things as a hack I responded to a few more calls downtown.  It was now about 11PM.  The early bar-goers were wrapping things up, the “lightweights” as I call them.  A woman in her mid-20’s got in.  She was dressed like a lumberjack.  “Office Christmas party,” she explained, “and the theme was plaid.”  Good to know.  I was beginning to think I had stumbled into some alternate universe.

I had earlier decided to drive until midnight or until the first whiff of hard liquor came oozing out of pores.  At 11:45 a woman got in outside a small boutique bar, a trendy spot.  When she opened her mouth to thank me for picking her up I caught the scent of tequila and knew she’d be my coda.  And a “fun” passenger she was too!  She went on and on about how she “loved my car”.  She used to have one just like it.  She sold it to a man who had just gotten rid of his Porsche.  I couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise if I tried but I would have asked “He sold a Porsche for an Accord?”  Turns out the sports car had been totaled and the man was decapitated.  “Run that by me again?” I said.  “Wait, what?” she replied.  “Oh, I guess he couldn’t have been completely decapitated.”  No, I’d say probably not completely.  She was sad to let go of her car but signed it over for the right price.  She’d heard four months later that he totaled that car too.  “Sounds like God’s trying to tell him something,” I muttered.  “I don’t know…” she said, her voice nostalgically trailing off and a tear welling up in her non-Botoxed left eye.  I wonder if I could get that car back, like if I could track it down and have it fixed up.”  Mercifully it was time for her to get out.

My quiver full of stories I shut that app off as fast as my thumb could swipe left to right and headed home.  On the ride I thought about the pregnant cabbie and wondered how much she’d be taking home in the morning.  I had worked a total of two hours and pulled in about a hundred bucks.  She’d be striving for tips.  Then I thought about the gentle and lovable drunks I’d shuttled and I felt good that I spared them and the world from a few drunk drivers this night.  I thought about the guys going to the movie and the moment we shared laughing at my disco preset.  I thought about the shoppers and wondered if Jesus would get his Red Rider air rifle.

I walked in to the love of my life sitting at the counter looking at her laptop.  She had waited up for me.  Aw, she does care.  “How’d it go?” she asked.  “Just another Friday  night, dear,” came my response and we headed off to bed.

The real answer to that question will come in a few months when we see if she gets a piñata and paper cups or a trip to Australia.

More Prayers

prayer

On your knees…

Yesterday I asked you to pray for three people.  One of them, Ruth, went home to God this morning surrounded by her family.  God grant her eternal rest!

If you could, please add to your prayers the following:

Nichole

Dave and Rebecca

Augustin

I should mention that just because I ask for prayers for a particular person; it does not mean that person is ill or dying.  Augustin, for instance, is a seminarian in my diocese whom I have pledged to support in prayer.  But especially for those who are ill, please add an extra prayer for comfort and for healing.

God bless you!

Prayers Please


I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted…

In your charity would you please pray for the following people?

Ruth

Peter

Ginny

These people are in need of all the prayers they can get and I have seen the power of sharing these requests on social media. A rosary helps but then again, any prayer helps. 

Holy Mary, Mother of God, ora pro nobis!