Will Somebody Please Jump My Husband?

        

“I have to ask my husband, first,” the slightly overweight woman with one flip-flopped foot out of her child-bearing years hesitatingly responded as her face blushed a terrific shade of ruby red. “I’ve never done it alone with another man. I wouldn’t even know what to d-d-do,” she stammered before turning away.

          Critically, I watched as she shuffled away from my husband and through the door of Syms still tightly clutching to her chest her husband’s dress loafers that she had come out to her car to retrieve so the tailor could properly measure the cuffs of his almost purchased pants. Even from where I stood I could tell by the width of the shoes, along with the visibly worn condition of the heels (the sides depleted into lopsided discs from the weight of wear), he was quite the loafer.  

          “What did she say to you?” I asked my husband, Jim, as he returned to our car, shoulders slouched in total dejection.

          “She said she had to ask her husband first.”

          “What? When the hell is a man as good looking as you ever going to ask a woman like her for a jump!” I demanded. I wanted answers.  “Did she see that you’re wearing a Fort Lee Fire Department tee-shirt?” He just gave me the look.

          We stood in the parking lot, the hood of our aging mini-van propped open; two hot, sweating, irritable children leaning against the trunk. The jumper cables hanging precariously from the hands of my eight-year old who, by the way, felt compelled to put on his old hockey helmet he had retrieved from the Goodwill bag in the trunk only to realize that the reason it was in the Goodwill bag is because it’s too small. It was now firmly affixed to his skull. While I was yanking at his head, Jim was approaching people as they exited Syms asking if they could give our car battery a jump.   

          The 50-year old man with his trophy girlfriend responded, “Sorry, man, we’re in a hurry.” Trying to stay positive, I just assumed he had to get her home before curfew.

          The 30-year old with the brand new Lexus murmured, “Sorry, I don’t want anything to happen to my car.” (My positivity waning, I wanted to instruct my son to head-butt the Lexus with his helmet.)

          The father of the family of six informed Jim, “Wish we could help, but we have to get the kids home.” (Oh, don’t worry. My kids have been pining for us to let them spend the night in the parking lot of Syms.)

          My favorite, however, was the man with the shiny Ford pick-up truck, oversized wheels, adorned with American flags and 9/11 decals, who looked our way, but didn’t respond. He just got into the cab of his truck and drove away. This man who probably shed buckets of Budweiser tears on the anniversary of 9/11 for people he doesn’t even know. This man who feels it necessary to billboard his patriotism for the entire world to see so his love and devotion to country is never questioned, has not one ounce of compassion for his countrymen or their young children.  

          Rejection after rejection after rejection. I was stunned by the conscious diffidence of humanity as it passed before us, refusing to make eye contact. Is this what we’ve become? We can all be friends on Facebook, but isolate ourselves from each other when real life interferes? Have we been reduced to Sims characters—just virtual shadows desensitized and controlled solely by the functions of the keyboard?

Growing up our car regularly broke down. Hell, everybody’s car regularly broke down. I have no memory of my father ever having to ask anyone for help—people would just pull over and help us. And I don’t think we ever went anywhere without stopping to help someone whose car was disabled. I was raised to understand that an open hood was the universal sign for “Stop and Help Your Neighbor.”

          Finally, listening to yet another rejection and unable to take it anymore, the sky now black with night, I stood in the middle of the parking lot and literally screamed to everyone walking past us, “Can’t anyone JUMP my husband? He’s a firefighter for godsake! He doesn’t say ‘No’ when your house is on fire—he just runs in! He leaves his family to help yours, but no one, NOT ONE OF YOU can give this man a jump! What’s wrong with all you people?”

          I wish I could tell you that everyone came rushing to our aide, but they didn’t. Although they listened to my rant with seeming amusement, most kept on walking. Walking without pause or concern. Except for a group of elderly people, two men and their wives. Four people, their words thickened by accents not native to our country, put their hands upon my shoulder and said of course they would help. They drove their car up to ours and within seconds our motor was humming. I could have cried from their simple generosity.

          As our family piled back into the running van my husband looked at me and said, “Wow, that was embarrassing.”

          “I know,” I replied in agreement. “I can’t believe no one would help us.”

          “I’m talking about your outburst,” he said before bursting into laughter.

          Momentarily I considered pushing him out of our van that was now doing 60 m..p.h. on Route 17 North, but thought better of it. Not only because we’ve been together for so long he’s like an accessory that never really goes out of style, but because I cancelled my life insurance policy on him.  And who could I possibly get to walk Bad Dog every day? But just see how long he has to wait for me to give him a jump!

           

DEADLIEST CATCH

If you grew up near the Hudson River (before River Road’s toxic riverfront properties were replaced by trendy malls, expensive restaurant chains, and upscale condos) or spent summers down the Jersey Shore, you probably know how to crab. Chances are, buried somewhere in your parent’s basement is a collection of rusting crab nets that haven’t seen the light of day since 1981. If you know what I’m talking about, then you know that the creator of the Discovery Channel’s “Deadliest Catch” had to have crabbed among us. He was probably the kid with the camera.

Although my remote control had scrolled by “Deadliest Catch” many times, it wasn’t until I was trapped inside by “Snow-mageddon” that I actually watched it. Luckily for me, it was a weekend marathon of re-run’s showcasing the real men of professional King Crab and Opi crabbing in Alaska. As I sat there and watched these fearless seamen brave the icy storms of the Bering Sea my thoughts travelled back to my days as a Hudson River crabber and I can’t help but marvel at the danger my fellow crabbers and I dodged.

We ancient Hudson crabbers of the last millennium may not know the experience of working on a boat while being pounded by 30 foot waves in below zero temperatures in the middle of an ice storm for six months braving squalls and tempests, but in some sense, our dangers were graver. First of all, if the Hudson was at low tide we had to walk shoeless (because we only got one pair of Converse or Pro-Keds a year and they had to last) across the marshes of toxic waste dumps to reach the decaying abandoned barges where we would cast our nets. We had to toe-dodge syringes, shards of broken beer bottles, the razor sharp pop tops of soda cans, and the decomposing flesh of rotting bodies. (Okay, so “rotting bodies” is part of the riverfront mythology, but did you ever smell the river at low tide?)

My father would come home from work to take us to the bait shop on Bigler Street in Fort Lee before depositing me, my brother, Eddie Faraday, Jimmy Younghans, Frank Moltisanti, and Don Nicoletti on some vacant riverfront property off River Road in Edgewater with nothing but our crab nets. Then he’d return to work leaving us unsupervised with nothing more than a warning—don’t get the lines crossed or tangled. There we’d join all the other kids whose father’s had dropped them off. For hours we’d boil in the sun in these days before sunscreen. We arrived at low tide, and by the time dad picked us up six hours later it was high tide, and we had to swim from the broken barge to his Rambler while carrying all the nets, and any crabs we were lucky enough to catch, above our heads. 

I remember swimming through the Hudson back to shore, my eyes blinded by the rays of the late afternoon sun trying to figure out which one out of the line-up of men, arms crossed, leaning against the uneven rows of parked Chevy’s, Falcons, Dart Swingers that lined the broken pavement of some former factory, was my father. Kids from Edgewater, Fort Lee, Cliffside Park, Fairview, North Bergen coming together for an afternoon of shared companionship. It was our very own lower East Side.

The other popular place to crab was off the side of Bunty’s dock near the base of the George Washington Bridge. That was the safe place to crab. Not only because Bunty was there to protect all us kids and teach us how to swim in the river, but while we were waiting for the crabs to bite he taught us how to bet on the horses, and heartily fed us thick slices of cheddar cheese and saltine crackers while he had his Rolling Rock Ale. No gourmet lunch ever tasted so good. The salt water, the feel of the wet twine burning the palms of your hand as you hauled the crab net into shore, and the toss of the heavy steel cage back into the River was enough to work up a sailor’s appetite.

When the flags atop Columbia Presbyterian Hospital descended at 5pm we knew it was time to head home. Little did we know, we crabsmen and women of the Hudson, that we already were home. 

I WAS AT WOODSTOCK, MAN

During these lazy last days of summer I’m having a really hard time trying to focus. Every time I come up with an idea for a column, my brain gets all A.D.D. and what begins as “Great Day Trips” somehow morphs into my giving the dog an embarrassing haircut so I can save money and stop getting my own embarrassing haircuts. I mean, when your dog’s grooming costs more than yours, and her hair looks better, there’s a problem, right? See what I mean? My linear thought process seems to be on vacation which isn’t good because I’m on deadline. Wait…look at all those hippies on television…what channel is this? What? The 40th anniversary of Woodstock? Get out! I was at Woodstock, man.
The summer of ’69, the summer of love, was the summer of my fourth birthday, and believe it or not I have really clear memories of it, albeit filtered through the prism of a 40-something woman. I was at Woodstock, but like everything else in my sordid life, I arrived the day everyone else left.
Every year in August, my old man would load up the Ford Falcon and take us to Callicoon, New York where his hard drinking retired Army Air Force brother, Jack, and his German wife, Friedel, lived. I always loved to say the name Callicoon—it sounds like the bastard off-spring of an alley cat and a raccoon. (See what I mean about my focus?) We were to learn on our trip that Callicoon is 12 miles from Woodstock. Was my old man in for a surprise!
Although I consider my father revolutionary in many ways, he took no part in the ‘60’s counter-culture. He was strictly a product of the Depression and WWII. Framed pictures of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hung on our walls; Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters continually played on our “pulled from someone else’s trash” RCA stereo console— just like the kind Monty Hall used to give away with a remote control color T.V. behind Curtain Number 3 on “Let’s Make a Deal.” Anyway, “Mele Kalikimaka” is to my family what “Silent Night” is to others. It wasn’t until I entered Kindergarten that I learned WWII was over and FDR had died; I’m still waiting for the Depression to end.
The point is, driving through Woodstock with John Wayne as your tour guide is pretty memorable. Words like “hop-heads” and “ja-boopies” resonated from the driver’s seat and still cloud the air over Woodstock. As we drove along those mud-caked single-lane roads, my brother and I ogling the barefoot stragglers in their crocheted vests and ponchos from the safety of the wagon’s backseat window, I felt like I was in Oz. It was also the closest me and my brother would ever come to our parents taking us to Jungle Habitat—the place designed to make you feel like you were driving through Africa; you stayed locked in your cars with your windows hermetically sealed in August sweating your ***** off while dodging wild animals teed off from living in suburban New Jersey. Instead of wild animals, hoards of hippies surrounded our car thumbing their way home.
As the Falcon sputtered along, John Wayne turned into Rhett Butler as my old man instructed us with a wave of his outstretched arm to take a good look around at the wasteland that lay before us. The back of his head shook in consternation and I could see his aggravated expression reflected back to me from the rearview mirror. Gone was the love and peace and flowers; all that was left was a psychedelic mess of dried mud and filth and trash. From my rolled down window my eyes followed the dried muddy footprints now baked into the earth—the La Brea tar pit of a barefoot generation. The generation of peace left its mark in many ways, but on that sunless summer day from the backseat of a white Ford Falcon my embryonic wonderings marveled…so many footprints must be leading to somewhere, and all I wanted to do was follow them.