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

TUESDAY AND THE REST OF THE WEEK (Part One)

Jude was both charming and enthusiastic, which meant that he could convince anyone to do almost anything he wanted him or her to do. He was also a grateful eater. “I’ll take that last piece of chicken if no one else wants it” was his mantra. There were no leftovers he didn’t like, either on his plate or yours.

Jude was also addicted to college football, so when he was given two tickets to an out-of-town game, he asked W.S. to join him that weekend. “I’d love to go,” W.S. responded, “But isn’t your baby due any minute now?” “The baby isn’t due for two more weeks,” said Jude. “See, I marked it on the calendar.”

“What does Tuesday think about your leaving?” I asked. “Take him. He’s all yours,” said Tuesday as she shuffled into the room. If a person didn’t know she was pregnant, one might wonder why this beautiful woman had swallowed a beach ball. “The doctor said that I’m not ready to deliver yet, and Jude is driving me nuts, so one quiet weekend sounds pretty good right now.”

I offered to move in with Tuesday and that Friday I packed a few things, and then drove Jude and W.S. to the airport where they took the late flight to football Nirvana. On the way to Tuesday’s apartment, my car started coughing, and by the time I arrived, it was hissing and wheezing and begging me to stop. It was midnight, and I figured I’d call a repair service in the morning. Tiptoeing my way into the apartment, so as not to waken Tuesday, I was startled when I saw her standing in the living room with a suitcase.

“My water broke,” she announced. “My car broke,” I responded. She said, “The last thing Jude said to me was to put my feet up,” I would kill him but my child needs a father. I called Vinnie and Velma since they lived close-by, and we took off for the hospital. As soon as we got Tuesday settled, I called and left a message for Jude that no matter how good the game was, he had to return home NOW! He was able to get a return flight that would arrive at 3:00a.m. Vinnie and Velma went to pick him up at the airport. Jude had convinced W.S. to stay for the game since there was only one emergency return ticket available.

Vinnie and Velma went home after dropping him off, but I decided to stay. I could take a taxi back to my apartment after the baby was born. Luckily, the plane had been early and Jude’s timing was perfect because at 3:45 a.m. I heard him yell, “Touchdown!” I assumed he was referring to the delivery of his little girl and not some goal post far, far away.

After congratulating the happy parents, I asked a nurse where I could catch a cab. “At this time of night, you have to call from the emergency room. That’s where they come to pick up passengers.” I found a door marked, Emergency and entered. No one was behind the desk, but I found a pay phone and called a taxi. I was told that a cab would be there in about 30 minutes, so I found an empty chair and sat down.

No sooner had I planted my posterior into that chair, than the door swung open, and a huge, hairy man wearing a black leather vest, black leather pants, and black leather gloves stomped into the room holding his bleeding head with one hand and his motorcycle helmet with the other. Magically, a nurse appeared, sat at the desk, and said, “Welcome back, Glock. You get into another fight?”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

THERE ARE PARTIES AND THERE ARE PARTIES

I don’t know why Mrs. Taser decided to host the wives tea the same day as the annual dinner dance, but she did. It meant not only an afternoon, but also an evening of faculty/student togetherness.

By now, I had been through the tea drill many times and arrived at the appointed hour---as did everyone else. Mrs. Taser asked me to keep an eye on the concoction in the punch bowl and told me, “The lime sherbet is in the freezer, and there’s a pitcher of punch already prepared in the refrigerator. It will be your job to refill the bowl.” “Yes,” I replied. “I can do that.” I figured that if I stood guard over the punch, I wouldn’t actually have to consume any of it. After all, I was ordered to watch it, not to drink it.

About 30 minutes later, I noticed that the green stuff had melted and the punch bowl was about half full, so I dumped the rest of the sherbet into the bowl and then opened the refrigerator to get the pitcher of punch. However, when I opened    the door, I saw that there was not only one pitcher of punch in the refrigerator--- there were two!

Before I could figure out which one to add to the bowl, Mrs. Taser yelled, “Bring in the punch!” So, I grabbed the pitcher in front, dumped the mixture into the bowl, and stirred it about. No sooner had I finished, than the wife of the president of the university made a beeline for the punchbowl poured herself a glass, sipped, gulped and said, “I go to a lot of these functions, but without a doubt, this is the best punch I have ever tasted. Pour me another one dear.”

By the fourth glass she went from “dear” to “dearie.” How was I to know that Mrs. Taser kept a pitcher of vodka in her refrigerator? Mrs. Taser could do nothing, but give me the evil eye, since the president’s wife was smitten with the punch. At that point, I was happy that Professor Taser was no longer my husband’s major professor. He wasn’t even on his doctoral committee, so the damage was minimal. However, I did offer to drive the president’s wife home. On the way, I promised I would sing the school song with her as long as she buckled her seat belt. Luckily, the lady had a wooden leg and we both survived the experience.

I got home just in time to change clothes for the social event of the year: the student faculty dinner dance. We arrived a bit late because W.S. had washed his good shirt and he had to finish drying it with my hairdryer. He dropped me off, and while he was looking for a parking place, I slipped into the room stood in the corner and took in the scene.

A card table was set up and four professors were already into a game of bridge. It was definitely a contact sport, because if looks could kill Professor Chi would have died on the spot. I don’t know why the other three even bothered to play with him since he, a world famous statistician, usually won. Every dinner dance, these four men would sit and play bridge, because that way they didn’t have to dance with their wives, eat the food, or (best of all) talk to their students. The bar tender was a student from Utah. I feared he might not graduate when I saw him plop a maraschino cherry into the dean’s martini.

W.S. walked in just as the music stopped and Professor Taser took to the podium, musical instrument in hand. He played a pretty mean banjo. After basking in the applause, Taser stepped down, and “The Graduate Men and Then Some” stepped up for a barbershop quartet rendition of “Lida Rose/Will I Ever Tell You?”  The “Graduate Men” were Rocky, Bubba, Barry and Snarky, and Velma was the “And Then Some.” She sang the “Will I Ever Tell You?” part. Turns out that Velma, the Jersey girl, sang sweeter than she answered the phone.

W.S. enjoyed dancing about as much as a root canal, but he managed to push me around the dance floor a couple of times repeating over and over, “This is such a long song.” It annoyed me when he rested his chin on the top of my head, so I suggested that we mosey over and sit down with Jude and Tuesday. Tuesday was almost nine months pregnant, so she wasn’t exactly sitting; it was more of a sprawl.

 W.S. said, “What are you both up to?” And, that’s when the adventure began.

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