1 Shore Excursion (3 page)

“Some other time, Eddie,” I yelled over the traffic, “I’m out on another trip tomorrow and I’m running kinda short on cash.”

“Well, a
ll
right, kid,” he yelled back, “but when I hit it big, you just remember I tried to let you in!”

I started back down the street, then stopped, caught a break in traffic and crossed against the light to Eddie’s bench.

“Eddie.
In the last few days, when you were sitting here, did you see anyone funny hanging around, anyone
who
didn’t belong here, not a tourist, not a regular?
A homeless guy, maybe, with long brown dreads and weird-looking eyes?”

He took his stogie out of his mouth and squinted up at me.

“Yeah.
Yeah. Now that you mention it, babe, maybe I did.
Yesterday.
He was sitting on the steps of your building.”

He chewed on the stogie then squinted up at me.

“He been bothering you?
He better not bother you none, cause if he does, he’s gonna answer to Big Eddie here. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know that.”
I patted him on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Eddie.
See you around.”

Great.
Just great.
I
had
a stalker.
And not even a cute one.
I scooted across the street just ahead of the M5 bus and headed home.

There were no
freaky
types hanging around my building as I entered, just the doorman having an intense discussion in Polish with the delivery guy from the dry cleaners.

While I waited for the elevator, I checked myself out in the lobby mirror.
No matter what Kim thinks
,
I am not fat.
Not
too
old.
Not
too
young.
Pretty
okay
looking, I thought, in my black Manhattan uniform.

My hair is black, too, and my purse and my shoes.
We New Yorkers look like a colony of cat burglars.

I pushed the elevator button again, like that would make it come faster.
The lighted numbers showed it stopped on 6.
If it doesn’t come soon, I said to myself, I will take the stairs
.
I glanced back at the mirror, thinking that I really didn’t look too b
ad, considering the day
I’d
had
.
I am lucky to have these big gray eyes with long enough lashes to get away with
very little
makeup.
And I’m
stil
l a long way from
B
otox, thank God, because I sure can’t afford it.

The elevator door opened and I stepped in as Mrs. Schwartz from 6B bounded out, pulled by her Weimaraner, Fritz, headed for the sidewalk.
The elevator doors closed
.
A
few glistening drops on the floor and
a faint odor
told me that Mrs. Schwartz hadn’t moved
fast
enough for Fritz.

Tons of New Yorkers share tiny apartments with beasts of all kinds, large and small.
I don’t.
I can’t imagine it.
I mean, I’m
okay
with dogs
—
I had
a dog and a cat
back home
—
but scoop
ing
poop at the beginning and end of every day, in the rain
, in the snow, in January?
Boarding a pet when I
’m away
on
long
trips?
No,
thanks.
Not for me.

Like most of Manhattan, I watched
New York One News
while I ate my sandwich
;
then I made
some
calls, finished packing, and had a long, hot soak in the tub.

My bathroom, like the rest of the building, is pretty old.
The plumbing clanks a lot, but I have this great tub, deep, with high sides
. T
he hot water is included in the rent so that’s one place I don’t have to economize.

My
p
hone rang while I was soaking
—
rang a long time
—
but I didn’t even think about trying to answer it.
I finally forced myself out of the water
and
brushed my teeth
.
After
I climbed in between
the
sheets I was lucky to get the light turned off before I fell asleep.

When I first moved to New York, the night noise drove me nuts.
I mean, Janusz is right.
I am from a small
‘
willage,
’
where you can count all the red lights in your head if you think hard enough.
My evening sounds were whip-o-wills and the wind blowing through the trees.
I also like sleeping with the window open, which of course magnifies the noise problem.

My first week in Manhattan, I
was sure
I
’d
picked an apartment in the wrong neighborhood.
In the daytime
the street
seemed quiet enough
, b
ut when I
turned off
the lights, I learned that New York quiet is not Mississippi quiet.

Horns.
Voices.
Garbage trucks.
Car alarms
.
Drunk Russians.
Loud tourists.
More c
ar alarms.
Diesel engines
.
Fire
trucks
.
Ambulances.
In the middle of the night.
All night.
Every night.

The rest of the world thinks that the phrase “city that never sleeps” means excitement.
New Yorkers know what it really means.
Night noise.
Of course the city never sleeps.
It can’t.

In time, of course, I adjusted.
I tried a lot of stuff before reaching that point.
The
little white
pills left me groggy at work.
The earplugs were impossible.
If I put the window down and went to sleep I woke a couple of hours later, suffocating because of the radiators.

I complained about noise pollution to the EPA.
I called the Ma
yor’s Quality of Life Hotline.
I drank milk.
Nothing helped.

But then, one night, for no good reason, after three weeks of insomnia, I slept.
Nirvana.
I simply didn’t hear
all that stuff
anymore.
I had become a New Yorker.

T
he phone woke me on Saturday morning, but when I finally answered it, no one
was
there.

Major bummer. Two missed calls. No number listed.

I rolled over. Probably a telemarketer.

The phone rang again, but this time, there was someone on the line. My mother.

“Mornin’ darlin’, time to rise and shine. Aren’t you leaving on your cruise today?”

“Yes, ma’am, but not until tonight. I’ve had a long week, Mamma, so I planned to sleep in a while this morning. I am meeting my group at Kennedy late this afternoon.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I woke you up, baby. I just wanted to tell you that another one of your daddy’s sisters is getting a divorce.”

“Which one? Seems like one of them is always getting a divorce.”

“Yes, I know. The women in the Marsh family have always had lots of trouble with men. It’s just how they are. The Marsh Curse,
that’s what
I call it. Always attracted to Mr. Wrong, never to Mr. Right. This time it’s your Aunt Caroline. She’s leav
ing that chiropractor she met in Cleveland
. I can’t say I’m surprised. I never thought it would last. He
’s a Yankee, and
was
married three times before he met her.”

“Mamma, Aunt Caroline
was
married before, too, first to that professional wrestler, and then to Uncle Jack, the bible salesman. I liked him. He made me laugh.”

“How could you have liked Jack, Sidney, when he turned out to already have a wife and family up in Missouri? That just shows that you
’
re a Marsh girl, too, and have no judgment at all when it comes to finding the right man.”

“You might be right, Mamma. But we can’t all be the belle of the ball like you
were
and find someone as good as Daddy.”

“No, that’s true
.
You’re right about that.
They don’t make many men as good as your Daddy
anymore
. His sisters sure have had bad luck, though. That’s the gospel truth. Well, I guess I better get off th
e
phone now, baby. It’s long distance and we’re just burning up money. You have a good time, now, you hear? Don’t work too hard and look around on that big ship, honey. There might be a nice man
on there just meant for you
. I
mean a
nice
man, now,
honey,
not one of those ole boys like your aunts are always runnin’ of
f
with and marryin’. Don’t
you
be
bring
in’
one of
those
home! Bye now, darlin’. Love you. Have a good time
now
,
and be careful!”

“Okay, Mamma.
Goodbye. Love you, too. Glad you called.”

I ended the call, put the phone on silent, rolled over,
and went back to
sleep. As I drifted off, I wondered if she might be right.
Wa
s
there a Marsh curse? And if so, did it apply to me?

The afternoon sun slanting through the mini-blinds finally persuaded me that it was time to get moving.
I
showered and dressed,
drank
iced tea
, ate
a sandwich
and
made
my bed
;
then
I
rolled my bag
down the hall, into the elevator, and out into the lobby.

The hallway smelled like marinara sauce.
People here cook a lot on the weekend.

“You are leaving again so soon.”

My favorite Pole grabbed my bag and carried it
down the steps to the street.

“While you are gone, this time, your sink, I fix. Yes?”

“Yes, indeed, Janusz.
That would be great.
I would love for you to fix my sink.”

I knew full well that he wouldn’t.

The black car
bound
for Kennedy was at the curb
,
and
while the driver loaded the bag
I grabbed a
Post
and a
Times
from the newsstand on the corner.
The street vendor cart that was always there
for me
in the mornings with
a
fresh
cup of
coffee
, fixed just the way I like it,
was gone.

New York is all about fresh.
Fresh pastrami, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh
flowers
.

F
resh driver from the car service.
“So, whereya goin’, doll?”
he said, checking me out.

“Kennedy, please.
British Airways.”

“Kennedy I already know, doll,” he smiled.
“
What I mean is, whereya goin’ after that?
And whenya comin’ back?
And when you
DO
come back, how about maybe a beer and a pizza sometime, you and me?”

You can’t blame a guy for t
rying, and he was pretty cute, but I smelled married so I turned him down.
Sing
le guys’ clothes never
smell
of
meatloaf
.

The car service
can be sketchy
because Itchy Feet won’t pay the five bucks to guarantee the fancier car, so
you never know.
Sometimes I score and ride like Mrs. Astor, gliding down Grand Central Parkway in a sweet new Town Car with soft leather seats.

Sometimes I bounce through Queens in a beat-up glider that is 15,000 miles overdue for a brake job, mesmerized by the
little cardboard
air-freshener swinging from the rearview.

My rejected Italian Stallion floored it along the north edge of the park and through Carnegie Hill, apparently preferring the cross-town lights and traffic to the twilight charms of Harlem.

He was really showing off
as he swung left onto the FDR, but I forgot all about him,
watching the lights of the RFK
Bridge reflected on the water of the East River.

I thought of other trips I’d taken
—
of other bridges, other rivers.

I remembered dusk along the Ganges, a faraway river that is also beautiful only in darkness.
And I thought that
, like the Ganges, you never kno
w when a body might just pop up in the East.

The black car got me to JFK earlier than I had planned on Saturday evening, but it was just as well, because my old chicks are
always early.
I rolled my bag
to the meeting point inside the international terminal and pinned on my bright pink “Hi, y’all!” button.

N
ow that I have abandon
ed
my Southern-belle-with-six-suitcases persona,
I rarely check a bag,
but for this fancy cruise, I
had to bring
a bit m
ore.

“Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh!”

A blue hair helmet headed my way.

Ready or not, hon, here come the High Steppers!

I turned to smile at one of my regulars, Ruth Shadrach, her prim little self forty-five minutes early.

Ruth had faded blue eyes in a pinched face that must have once been very pretty. She wore a dusty rose twin
-
set,
tan
mom pants and sensible shoes.
Her
graying brown
hair had been carefully
styled
at what
was
almost certainly
a standing appointment and locked into place with industrial strength super-super hold hairspray.

“I have been waiting here for almost an hour, Miss Marsh.
One airline man was very rude to me.
He could barely even speak English!
I couldn’t find you.
I didn’t see any stewardii.
I didn’t see any of our group. I would have already called the travel agency if it
didn’t
close
early
on Saturday.
I thought I had been left
!
”

The others trickled in, and I greeted them, help
ing
each one with tickets and passports and bags, bag
tags and nametags. I checked the passengers off my list as they arrived, collecting the entire group before proceeding through security.
An international flight requires a pretty long check-in, and it is hard to keep the early arrivals corralled until you have the whole group assembled.
The siren song of the duty-free shops drives them wild.

I knew most of the group, but
as usual there were a few who were
not true High Steppers.
Our prices for these trips are
pretty
good, so that often attracts extras, at least for one trip.
However, for
most people under forty, unless you are seriously into Lawrence Welk, one trip with this bunch is plenty, no matter how good the deal is.

I’m assigned to
the High Steppers
far
more often than the other agents in my office, and I’m
fine
with that. I like the
m
.

Some of our agents balk at leading senior groups, because of the extra care involved in such tours. I’m okay with seniors. I grew up around old ladies and gentlemen, in the older section of a small town in the South. I was surrounded by my grandparents and uncles and aunts and great-aunts and great-uncles and all their friends.

My fond feelings for my elders began then, in my childhood.

My friends who lived in the modern section of town were closer to the new school and had kids their own age right next door, but they didn’t have the Misses Wells to make teacakes for them, or Mr. Billy to tell them stories. Those kids wouldn’t have dared to go near that
strange
old woman down the block who showed me the difference between a robin’s egg and a mockingbird’s.

What I’m trying to say is, some people sell
older people
short, but I never have. I respected them when I was seven, and I respect them now. They are usually good sports and they pretty much tell it like it is. That can be refreshing, and often includes some wonderful stories as a bonus.

So I don’t mind at all
being assigned to seniors
. It’s good that I don’t, because escorting your elders around the world is a job that is not always easy.

“Miss Marsh, Miss Marsh,
hello
, Miss Marsh
...”