New York With My Mom

My mom is super.  She can make macaroni and cheese with hot dogs.  And she owns her own business. 

I helped, you know.  I was always pretty good in school.  I couldn't do the fancy stuff with expensive computers yet, but I would write pamphlets, and print flyers, and enter important numbers into the program my dad wrote for accounting.  So, I did a lot.  Which is why I got to go to New York.  I got to go with my Mom on a big business trip.  I was going to see my favorite city in the whole world, and wear nice clothes like all the big people, and sit in the booth and pass out flyers that I made.  I was ridiculously proud of myself.  I must have been awful.  I was fourteen.  Full of chub.  I needed a haircut.  Nothing in my closet felt right.  Unbearable.

My family was lucky in that we traveled often.  The group had spread out between our roots in farming county Minnesota southwest to sunny San Diego  and further south to my home in barren Albuquerque, New Mexico.  We traveled really often. 

I was at that age where a plane was so great you could never fit the whole thing in your eyes.  I would push up against the glass and watch the spiral-pinned turbines whirl round and round and round.  I'd leave my bag unattended and join the crowd following our plane into the gate.  I never missed it.  I'd always wake up and push my nubby arms through the adults for a good spot.  And they always let me.  Maybe it's because I smiled.  You have to smile back at the big bird.  He was going to take you away.  I still smile when I see him come in and look at me with those big googly eyes.

I popped my ears going up.  I do the yawning trick sometimes.  I popped my ears half-way.  I like pinching my nose and feeling the air come out.  I took a nap, yawned and my ears popped again.  I remember a headache.  I remember getting to the hotel, plopping on my bed while my mother worked through all the amenities, talking about how they'd come into play throughout the trip -- the refrigerator we'd stock, the cabinets to hold a little cheap wine, the cute old stove we could cook noodles on -- oblivious to me trying to bash empty water out my ears until my face turned red; my nose pinched so tight it almost bruised.  I blew so hard my cheeks puffed out and spit dribbled all over my nice travel clothes.  My mom asked if I was hungry.  I forgot about the headache. 

My mom was a trooper.  She screamed at "union idiots" to get the booth set up for hours that first morning. When everything was perfect, she had me practice saying "hello" and passing out flyers and business cards.  She ran around to see everyone.  I mean everyone.  I was her son and the whole convention new it.  I was riding high and there were a lot of people for me to gloat over.  So many, we ran out of taxis.  A limousine pulled up and my Mom haggled ten dollars each for a big group of us to get lunch and nap at the hotel.  She was the city and the big people and nice clothes.  She was my hero.

We never did stock the refrigerator.  A little leftover juice and some cheap wine made its way to the cabinets and stayed after we left.  In fact, I don't remember anything I ate -- except I do recall a great big line out of a deli.  That's horrible isn't it?  You'd think a fat little kid would be quick to remember the food.  I remember there was bar in the limo.  And a TV.