Who's on First?

I didn't plan on passing the sign, Oakland Tribune News, the sign above a newstand,

on my way to an airport bar late on a Thursday night.  There's an important game happening across the bay in San Francisco, and here I am in a crappy bar with faux slate surrounding good bottles of tequila.

But, hell, in the final-final?  My first trip to New York will trump listening to the game.

Besides, there's a telly right there, and one of the three guys taking up space on the stools sees me standing there and in a show of good baseball/bar etiquette, he grabs his satchel off one of the stools and gestures for me to take a seat. 

They don't have a lot of great whiskey - did I mention this is a crappy bar?  Crappy in the sense that all airport bars are crappy.  Anyway.  I'm drinking Maker's, over.  A double because why not?

The guys on either side are also headed to NYC, white dude and an Asian dude.  An hispanic dude next to him.  And me, a Greek dude.  Baseball, she is nothing if not a pleasant shore, comforting for any and all huddled masses.

The game goes well.  There's a freaky little Giant on the mound for the good guys, and he's breaking strikeout records all over the place,

until he strikes out the last bad guy, and so the good guys win.

That's about the time I break out my Moleskin notebook to jot some things down, and the placeholder I find inside is a ticket from our Spring Training game this year, Giants vs. Angels.  The bad guys prevailed that time.  But that was then, this is now.

At the store this morning, I was talking about taking the red-eye tonight, and a customer said, Where are you flying?  And I said, New York.  And he said, I'll see you tonight, then, because I'm on it too.

And when I see that guy tonight, after the good guys won, I realize he's a neighbor - flying with his wife and daughter.  So we make pleasantries, and then I get to board.  I'm the first one on the plane.  Which is a first in-and-of-itself.  And if I were superstitious, I would say that bodes well for the good guys and their chances in these playoffs.  And no, I can't tell you why my boarding first should have anything to do with the good guys finishing first, it just does, ok?  

So I sit there and nod to my baseball compatriots, the guys from the bar, as they file past.  And all I remember from the flight is the nerdy little guy showing me how to buckle my seat belt, and he says, It should be low and tight under your waist - then just pull the tongue to make it tighter.  And all I can think is, Are you fucking kidding me?  I can barely make the thing connect as it is - it ain't going any tighter.

In other news, my mistake, I realize now, was waiting for the lights to go down before I turned on my reading light.  I had a fabulous copy of a not-yet-released novel, The Oracle of Stamboul, that I was looking forward to, but when I turn on my light, the guy next to me kind of winces.  That's awful bright, he said.

I should have been in full New York mode and said, Too bad.  Instead, I went all California on him and just turned the light off.

So, New York.  I know there are two things I want to do.  Ellis Island.  See where it all started for my Papou George.  And I want to visit the Dakota, where Lennon lived.  I dunno, just seems appropriate.  Since he sorta wrote the soundtrack to so many lives, mine included, I'm thinking it's important to see, is all.

Start Spreading the News

 

People tend to be incredulous when they discover I've never been to New York.  Especially New Yorkers, right?  I assure them it's not some California vs. New York thing.  I haven't made the trip for the same reason I've never done pharmaceuticals for fun - I'm the teensiest bit worried I'd like it too much.

But - events have conspired such that, at the grand old age of 44, I'm leaving today and will wake up in that city that never sleeps.  To commemorate the trip, I mixed myself a Manhattan last night.  And after all, people have been asking me, Where can a guy get a drink around here?  Ain't this Drinks With Nick?  Where'd the drinks go ferkryingoutloud?

So - the Manhattan.  It's really the perfect cocktail - has more going on than a martini.  And there are variations, indeed, for the structure is there for you to play with.  I started with the strictures set out by my dad's fifty-year-old copy of the Old Mr. Boston De Luxe Official Bartender's Guide.  To whit:

1 Dash Bitters 

3/4 oz. Sweet Vermouth

1 1/2 oz Old Mr. Boston Whiskey

Stir well with cracked ice and strain into 3 oz. cocktail glass.  Serve with a cherry.

For bitters, I used Peychaud's - I like the New Orleans connection, and it's sweeter than Angostura. There's no Old Mr. Boston in the cupboard, so I used Michter's Bourbon.  The cherry, of course, is Luxardo.  We've talked of this, yes?  Really, get a jar and open heaven.

Mix one tonight - while I'm airborne trying to glean a Giants' update from a stewardess.

Now if I could just find a pair of vagabond shoes...

The Giants Win the Pennant!

On this date in 1951, at 3:58 p.m., with the Giants fighting to win the pennant – but losing by two runs in the bottom of the ninth – Russ Hodges delivered the most famous play-by-play in the history of baseball:

Brooklyn leads it 4-2.

Hartung down the line at third not taking any chances.

Lockman with not too big of a lead at second, but he'll be runnin like the wind if Thomson hits one.

Branca throws.

[audible sound, bat greeting ball]

There's a long drive.

It's gonna be, I believe…

THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!

Nearly fifty years later, the San Francisco Giants opened the most beautiful ballpark in the major leagues at 24 Willie Mays Plaza.  Before the year began, my Godfather put together a group of fans to purchase season tickets.  Four seats, near the end of the third base line, just inside the foul pole.  From that vantage, we watched a lot of Barry Bonds in his prime, witnessed lots of fabulous baseball.

Just great, great seats.

That year – 2000 – was a rollercoaster.  The Giants christened their new ballpark by getting swept by the dreaded Dodgers.  But then they began steaming ahead.  In the middle of that summer, my Godfather called.  He had a conflict with one of his games – a Thursday night at the end of September.  The 21^st.  Nicky, he said, is there a chance we could switch tickets?  You guys go then, and we'll take one of your games in June?  You never know, my Nono Bill joked, they could clinch that night.

So Karen and I went, and it was electric – because the Giants had exactly that – the opportunity to clinch the West.  My godfather was dying, couldn’t believe how prophetic he had been – but he made good on the switch, so Karen and I were there, not Bill and Diane.  Before the game, Ellis Burks had received the Willie Mac Award – presented each year to the most inspirational Giant.  He accepted his plaque as Who Let the Dogs Out thundered through the park.  Burks would add to his great year by hitting a two-run homer to tie the game early.

Later in the game, with the Giants behind 6-4, Karen looked at the scoreboard and shook her head.  Are they going to lose? she said.  I was feeling awfully cocky that night, and just said, No.  No way.  Relax.  They’ll do it tonight.

Still later, there stood Ellis Burks, again at the plate, and he singled in the eighth inning, part of the rally that would see the Giants take the lead for good.  Take the lead, and the West.

When Robb Nen recorded the final out, pandemonium ensued.

Cheers, screams, more Dogs were Let Out – and lots of champagne spurted over many heads.  Amidst the spray of Cordon Rouge that doused the Giants clubhouse–

–as we outside screamed our throats hoarse, Barry Bonds yelled, We’ve had sellouts all year.  Let’s give the people out there some love.

When the players flooded back onto the field, things got even louder than they were – hard though that is to imagine because it was already plenty loud.  Burks broke from the pack and pulled a Cal Ripken, taking a victory lap, giving and receiving high-fives as he went.

Because our seats were right there, Karen and I huddled next to the field, waiting.  Burks slaps me a high-hard one, and I yell, Ellis.

And he goes, Yeah?

And I go, You rock.

And he goes, Yeah.  I do.  And he’s just smiling large the whole time.

He takes a few quick steps, slapping more hands, but then he stops and looks back at me.

But you know what? he says.

What? I say right back.

Tonight, so do y’all – and then Burks continued on his victory-lap way.

That was a fantastic night for the 40,930 fans who saw the game unfold.  Great memories for us, just like the great memories that were made a few hours ago as the Giants again took the West.

Go Giants.

They Ban Books, Don't They?

*taptaptap*

Is this on?

*tappitytap*

Check. One two three. Check.

Can you hear me? You can?  Ok, good.  Good.



Brothers and Sisters! Sisters and Brothers!  It’s been long since I last spoke to you, too long. But I am here today to spread the Word, the good Word. Can I get an Amen?

*Amen.*

I said, can I get an Amen?


*AMEN!*

Better, that’s better. Remember – you gotta be loud if you wanna do good.

I am here today to speak to you of a slithering evil. A serpent hidden in the grass. Yes, hidden. For just as the serpent hid in the garden, just as Satan deceived Eve by posing as something he was not – for would not Eve have run from Satan if he had shown himself in his full, repellent glory?

*Eve would have run, Brother!*

As would any of us, Sister King.  As would any of us.  Now, today's evil is not named Satan – we shall leave him for another time.  Today's evil is . . . Censorship.

*But Brother Nick?  This is the Land of the Free.  We've fought, and continue to fight, wars at home and abroad to maintain our Freedoms.  We don't censor.*

I hear you, Brother Kahane, I hear you. ‘Twould be nice to believe that the home of the brave was not run by cowards – but there they are. Cowards kowtowing to the liars, deceivers, and those of little minds.

But why speak of Censorship now? Banned Books Week, of course (it ends today). As you know, when Brother Nick is not preaching, he's selling books. To commemorate Banned Books Week, Brother Nick received a Manifesto by esteemed author Ellen Hopkins. You can read it here:

Ellen Hopkins/anti-censorship Manifesto

The Manifesto, all prettified, begged to be displayed. Which we did at ye olde bookshoppe. We surrounded the Manifesto with books – after wrapping the books in brown covers, their titles crudely written in black, the black scrawled across all that brown. We’d hoped the effect – all those books under wraps – would be arresting.  We hoped people would stop and stare. And they did, Brothers and Sisters, they did!

Of Mice and Men.  Lolita.  In the Night Kitchen.

Why are these books all wrapped up? they’d ask. And we’d tell them, Brothers and Sisters, we’d tell these innocent customers the truth.  Ask them to read the Hopkins Manifesto.  Some would scoff. Or stutter. Others got real quiet real fast.

The Bluest Eye.  Fahrenheit 451.  Harry Potter.

You mean, they would say, these books have been banned, like, elsewhere, right? And there, Brothers and Sisters, is when we would pause. Maybe sigh. Then gaze down at the books in their plain brown wrappers.

The Kite Runner.  Junie B. Jones.  A Wrinkle in Time.

No, we would respond. These are the books that have been challenged. These are the books that have received complaints, complaints written on parchment and delivered to civil authorities. These are the books, Brothers and Sisters, these are the books—

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.  The House of Spirits.  Friday Night Lights.

–these are the books under heaven that need to be removed. From libraries. From classrooms. Snatched from your hands like gold stolen from the just.

But surely, they continue – these customers who stumbled into the bookstore, seeking succor and comfort. Surely, they continue, you speak of evils from long ago? And there again, Brothers and Sisters, there again is when we look down at the books hidden in brown paper, we look down at them—

Forever.  The Giver.  The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.

–we look down at the printed word, hidden in plain sight, and tell them the story of Stockton, Missouri.  For 'twas Stockton’s School Board that voted less than one month ago to yell ‘Get Thee Gone’ to The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It shall be torn asunder, they decreed. Trampled.

Ken Spurgeon, lily-livered member of the school board, was not swayed by arguments that Mr. Sherman Alexie’s book was award-winning and worthwhile. We can take the book, he said, and wrap it in those twenty awards everyone said it won and it still is wrong.

Or Rod Tucker. Let’s take Board Member Rod Tucker. Got that name? Rod Tucker. Tucker also wasn’t moved by the testimonials, by the fact that Sherman Alexie won the National Book Award for this title. The book has too much profanity to be of value, Mr. Tucker professed.

How about Mike Holzknecht? Got that name? He’s a concerned parent. Why is Mikey concerned? Why, the book describes – I shudder to write it, Brothers and Sisters, I shudder. But the book even goes so far as to describe the act of an adolescent spilling his seed upon the ground. Can you believe it?  Do you believe?

*We believe!*

Oh the shame. Poor Mikey Holzknecht is concerned for his children, frets that they would be subjected to such filth. To keep them virginal and pure, I imagine Mikey collecting his family and reading from the Good Book every night after supper.

Can I get a chapter and verse? Brothers and Sisters, can I get a chapter and verse?

*Genesis 38:6-10!*

Thank you, Sister Jenkins, thank you. Now, let me see. Genesis 38. Hmm. 6-10 you say? That would be the story of Onan, yes?

*Yes!*

Well, ok then. Onan. What does the Good Book tell us of Onan?  We are told that Onan had him a brother, Er. But Er was wicked so the Lord slew him. Thus Judah, the father of Er and Onan, worried about the long lonely nights that Er's widow would suffer, so Judah instructed Onan to go in unto his brother’s wife. So Onan did. Went on in unto his brother’s wife. But he threshed within and winnowed without – as our good Brother among the Israelites Rashi describes it – and so Onan spilled his seed upon the ground.

This of course is all described in Mikey Holzknecht’s Old Testament. As is all manner of wickedness and deceit. I wonder if Mikey has read all of the Good Book? Or if he just skims the New?  I fear if he ever does, Mikey Holzknecht will demand that the Bible be removed from his children’s classrooms, to protect them from the description of Onanism.  And whatnot.

Brothers and Sisters, I could go on. I could quote the McKullicks. Quite the pair, those two. If the husband wasn’t saying We don’t feel like it’s got proper language, not for children, then his wifey was crying how It’s sure not for kids. I sure wouldn’t want my children to read it.

And if she can stop her children from reading it, well, why not stop yours, too?

Oh, the road is long. Long and rocky.  And though your Brother Nick is weary, I could continue. Could tell you the story of my nephew. The Christmas when we purchased him the offending opus – yes, we had the temerity to buy him The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.

Our nephew, perhaps he was not the most voracious reader. Perhaps the word had not inspired him as much as we would have hoped. But it was Christmas, and we – my wife and I – we buy books for our nieces and nephews. It is what we do. And so this book went to that nephew. And shortly thereafter, our Sister-In-Law called. Wanted to know – with a laugh in her voice – Brothers and Sisters, I do not have to say that she inquired – with laughter in her voice – whether we knew what was in the book, because the nephew had been glued to The Diary ever since he opened it.

What was in the book?  Profanity?  Yes.  The Sin of Onan?  Yes.  Did it wrangle with racism?  Indeed.

None of these matters, of course, would pique the interest of a youth of today.  Entice them to read when they are confronted, confounded, and assaulted on all sides by television, the internet, video games.

And the nephew? Our nephew?  The nephew who theretofore had not been a reader of ravenous appetite?  When next we saw him? The day after Christmas? The nephew hurtled out of his parent’s van and knocked me over with his hug. Repeating – Thank You, Thank you. That’s the best book I’ve ever read, Uncle Nick. Ever. Thank you.

And so I want to ridicule the leaders who would take the book out of my nephew’s hands. ‘Tis too easy, you say. Too easy, indeed. And after all, my nephew doesn't go to high school in Stockton, Missouri.  So why worry?

Why, indeed, worry?

As Banned Book Week ends, as I take down the Manifesto of Ms. Hopkins, let me remind you from my bully pulpit that book banning is not something that was only done in some long ago and far away. It happens now. And it shouldn't matter whether here or there.

Nor should it matter which book.  Maybe Mr. Alexie's words wouldn't touch you the way they touched our nephew.  It does not matter.  It's the taking away that matters.  The censorship.  The banning. For tomorrow, it shall be your favorite book.  Tomorrow or the day after.  I tell you this, I promise you this.  So be aware. Tell me you will be aware, Brothers and Sisters!

*We will be aware, Brother, we will be aware!*

So let it be written, so let it be done.

His clothes are loud. --Ray Davies

Let's call him "Ray."  Until recently, "Ray" was a sportswriter for a major metropolitan newspaper.  Alas, few metropolitan newspapers can nowadays call themselves "major" - so "Ray" wisely trotted off to the greener pastures of TV.  I really hate TV and really love newspapers - but my nostalgic yearnings for the Gray Ladies of my youth won't make today's rags more profitable than the telly, so I can't fault "Ray" for leaving the former for the latter.

This, though, doesn't prevent "Ray" from continuing to stop into the bookshop to buy his papers, so this morning began like most at the store - with Ray collecting the Chron, the Merc - and both versions of the Times that we sell, the Contra Costa Times and that other one.

We often talk sports, because that's what "Ray" writes, so I told him that it was mornings like this one where it paid to be a fan of baseball and not football because the San Francisco Giants won their game in grand fashion yesterday - and with six games left in their season, they are in first place - while football's 49ers might prefer to be at the end of their season, and not the start, because so far they've just sucked.

But the Giants won, and a day never begins more bright - I told "Ray" - than when I open the Sporting Green and read about the latest Giants' victory.  Conversely, a Giants' loss can't help but color the day for me in shades of gray.

And I realized "Ray" just stood there on the other side of the counter shaking his head.

"You've got two problems," he said.

"Do tell, 'Ray,' do tell," I said as I returned 6¢ from the five-dollar bill he had given me.

"First," he said, as he folded the papers and tucked them under his arm, "you obviously don't care how you dress–"

And I'll pause here to say a couple of things.  First, I'm listening to "Ray" right now as he talks on the radio, and that's just funny - hearing this local luminary dissect the woes of our football teams (we have two, you'd think one of them would be worth a nickel), listening to this luminary who writes like a sarcastic saint while I in turn write about our interaction earlier.

Second, "Ray" is correct.  He's more blunt than my fragile ego would like, but "Ray" speaks like he writes - no quarter given, no prisoners taken.  And that's why his words are so fun to read, his analysis so entertaining.  "Ray" doesn't make up the news, he just reports it - and it's not his fault that I live in Hawaiian shirts.  Tommy Bahama is a look I could update if I wanted - but that'd require shopping and measurements and I dislike both.

Anyway.

"Ray" then left me with his other pearl of wisdom.  He tossed it my way as he headed out the door onto Park Street.  "Second," he said, "don't let your day be affected by the play of millionaires on some field somewhere.  They're just playing a game and getting paid way too much while doing it." 

And that was so like "Ray."  The first remark cutting and brusque, the second containing more insight than I can reasonably accommodate before my third Diet Coke of the morning.

In "Ray's" honor, I'm thinking I'll go for something easy tonight, and there's not much easier than beer.  Anchor Steam has a newish brew - Humming Ale.  It's one of their seasonals, so it's only available from August to November.  It's hoppy and fabulous and I can't think of anything tastier, can't think of a better end to this hot, slings-and-arrows day.

To "Ray!"

Prep the Patient with Alcohol

What do you do when a scabby fist lodges itself behind your sternum?  When the fingers of that fist begin to lengthen and swell even when there's no space, none, but those fingers - with claws for nails; coarse and cracked - when those spreading fingers with rough nails keep expanding when there's no margin for expansion, when the sternum, usually so hard, so protective, when the sternum is going to splinter, then burst, when you can't breathe because there's no room for air in your lungs, when that fist is going to open, no matter what--

Stay seated on the couch with your three-year-old.  Your daughter who should be asleep but who's up, happy for a little extra Mommy-time without the distracting competitions of her older sister.  Sit there and look down at her sleepy face, so peaceful, until she looks at you and screws up her little three-year-old features, looks up at you and says, "What's the matter, Daddy?  What's wrong?"

Then isn't the time to disregard the voice of your wife as she offers any number of solutions.  "We can call the Andersons," she says. Or:  "Cassandra is traveling, but Natasha's home - she could get Harry to sleep on the couch while we drove to the hospital.  I'm sure of that."  Or:  "No, you can't go to Alameda Hospital.  Your insurance just switched over on the first, August first, right?  Kaiser's it.  Let me figure out where we need to go."

Then isn't the time to decide that you really should shower before hitting the E.R.  And brush your teeth.  Shave.  Krissy, though, she shaved her legs when she went into labor with Matthew, right?  It would make perfect sense to do these things, to attend to these ablutions, if it wasn't for that fucking fist that was so close to punching through the wall of your chest.

So instead you look at Kristina, at her beautiful little face.  She never snuggles like this, not when Mom is so close.

There are things to do, so many things.  Karen, she was a bit unobservant there at the beginning, but she's on it now.  You're not going to poke fun of her in the years ahead - you've got years ahead, Kristina needs you to have years ahead; Elizabeth too, Elizabeth asleep, upstairs, she's not even going to get a goodbye hug - so you won't poke fun of Karen like you've done for twenty years, twenty years ago now when she wouldn't immediately hop out of bed and drive you to the hospital.

That was a bad summer that started so good. You'd just gotten married, but then the tumor in your esophagus, necessitating an ugly surgery, a lateral thoracotomy, and then weeks of recovery after they cut you in half.  That's what "lateral thoracotomy" means.  It's Latin for "they cut you in half and use the Jaws of Life on your ribcage and then staple you back together after they finish messing about."

And as far as being a patient?  You suck, just suck.  Hadn't Karen done everything?  Stayed with you at the hospital - for how many days?  Often past midnight, then you calling before six in the morning.  "My comb," you'd say, "I need it."  And:  "When are you coming back?"  So stop the jokes about her not jumping up that second and driving you to the hospital.  The second time that summer.  Not a tumor this go around.  This time, your gallbladder shut down.  Yeah it hurt.  Big deal.  You were a sissy about it then, don't be a sissy now.

It didn't hurt like this, though.  Not like that fist was about to explode like a grenade from the inside.  You thought the gallbladder hurt - but this?  This is what hurt feels like.


The nurse looks at me funny when I tell her I drove myself.  I don't tell her about Karen and all her solutions, my urge to shower.  I'm focused on the second occasion of the "incident."  She calls it that first, this blonde nurse in blue scrubs, but they'll all call it that in the next twenty hours there at Kaiser.

The Incident.

The Incident was three, all wrapped in one.  First there on the couch, at about 9 p.m.  Then about an hour later, that time with Kristina next to me.  The pins and needles in my left hand.  That was the Incident that made me forget about taking a shower, and got me into my car alone.  Then the third, after the blonde in blue told me to take a seat, and I did, sat there by the entrance, by the metal detector I had to go through because this is Oakland - the detector that alarmed even after I set out my keys and my sterling cigarette holder-cum-wallet and the random change from my pockets, set all that in the plastic tub by the gate - I alarmed the detector even then because my belt buckle is metal, and large enough, and so the game warden there at the entrance, she had to wand me, find the buckle and only that buckle before she waved me through.

So that third time I sat there by the alarming gate and I got quiet, and tried to breathe, and closed my eyes because the fist was back, larger and hotter than before, so I closed my eyes and breathed all shallow, breathebreathebreathe, and that's when the blonde took notice - took notice of my closed eyes, my short breaths, breathebreathebreathe - took notice and grabbed my arm and led me to the back, to the doctors, through some swinging doors to the doctors.

Bridget's beautiful.  She's the nurse taking care of me.  I don't get a really good look at her.  I feel like there's a lot of blue in the ER.  Nurse scrubs and walls and gurneys.  What I remember of Bridget are the crazypretty silver earrings swinging from her ears, the silver shiny against her coffeeblack skin.  She's talking to Marcos, this tatted dude who might be a paramedic.  They're chatting about needles and what gauge they're going to stick me with - 20, 18, or 16.  "The funny thing about needle gauges," he's talking to me, "is that they're the exact same for stereo speakers.  So now you know that," he says.

Beautiful Bridget straightens my arm, "Wow, look at that vein.  We could do a 16 in there.  You want to do a 16?"  "I'll do a 16," Marcos says.  "That's good bragging rights."  But it doesn't work out that way.  He tells me there's going to be a stick, and there is, but then he's digging around inside my arm with his 16 gauge, and I'm thinking the smaller the number the bigger the needle, and then he's saying, "I blew that vein out.  Just blew it."  So Bridget takes over, starts swabbing the back of my hand with alcohol, says she's going to do it, nothing fancy, just a 20 gauge to get it in, stick me just a little.

She does stick me, and my blood squirts, I get her shirt pretty good, and it's wet on my hand, my hand's wet with blood and Bridget's apologizing, getting it clamped off down there, and then they're moving me to Room 12.

Outside of 12 there's a print by Ansel Adams, big and black-and-white, of a tree covered in snow, three main branches coming off the trunk, all listing to the left, blanketed in white, and I think it's there to warn you how cold the room's going to be.  The blanket they gave me came out of an oven, that's what it feels like, warm, almost hot, but the blanket will keep that warmth for just a few minutes inside the room.  I'm looking down at my feet, my feet in blue socks sticking out from under the white blanket.

The room's got a plexi holder on the wall inside the door, lots of slots for lots of forms:  Surgical Checklist, Valuables Checklist, Tetanus Consent Form, Lab Slips, Surgical Consent Form.  They don't worry much about those for me, just wheel me on the gurney tightly through the small room, past the big red biohazard wastebasket and the blue gloves in another plexi holder on the wall.

Bridget slicks back a beige curtain and Marcos parks me against the wall and all I can do is focus on the mismatched acoustical tiles in the ceiling as Bridget tosses two plastic sacks onto the counter, one holding my shoes and pants, the other holding my rolled-up blazer.

This is home for the next 19 hours.

As soon as I'm parked, this dude pushing around a mobile x-ray machine stops and looks in.  "Why dint you tell me you needed a chest done?" he says to Bridget.  "I called out," she says.  "You gotta use my name," he says back.  "I said 'Hey,'" she says.  "'Hey' ain't gonna do it," he says back to her.  "You gots to use my name."  Bridget laughs.  "I am going to get you later," she says.  "I want you to get me later," he says back, "so I'm gonna run slow."

And this time they both laugh.

The dude maneuvers the machine into 12.  "You had an Incident, huh?" he says, and then he shoots my chest and leaves.  A lot of nurses and techs come into 12 and then leave.  Like the nurse that slaps a Nitroglycerin patch onto my chest.  Then the other one who has me dry-swallow two tabs of some children's aspirin because the nitro can give you a bitch of a headache.  Or Marcos again trying to get me hooked up for an EKG.

It doesn't help that I have a hairy chest.  I'm Greek, ok?  Five of the connections work, but not the sixth.  He rips that one off, taking a mat of black hair with the connection, unsuccessfully sticks another one on me with Bridget watching.  Just watching.

Until Bridget tells him she'll do it, kind of like she took over with the needle, and so she asks if she can shave my chest a little to get down to skin.  I tell her I'm not going to be on any calendars anytime soon, so shave away.

I need another blood test and a stress test on a treadmill and my temperature needs taking and my lungs listened to and I should focus, but now focus is hard.

Karen calls at 12:06 a.m.  Gets an update, wonders if I'll be able to sleep.  As she says that, the blood pressure cuff tightens hard on my arm.  The cuff goes off every 15 minutes.  I have to wait six hours before they can take more blood.  So that means the cuff will go off, loud and hard, 24 times between now and 6:15.

I'm thinking no sleep.

But I've got clean oxygen pumping into my nose, nitro on my chest, the cuff on my bicep, something attached to my flip-you-off finger, a 20 gauge needle stuck into the back of my other hand in case they need to pump fluids into me before they use it to draw more blood - more blood in approximately 24 blood pressure checks from now.

I tell Karen my phone's about dead, so I'll be incommunicado.  Bye and I love you.

A nurse kills the lights.  And the little doohickey clamped to my flip-finger glows red, and that red matches the sign out in the hallway next to Ansel Adams, the red a circle and slash - the slash through a lit cigarette, the sign announcing, "No Smoking Oxygen in Use."  So I breathe some of that O2, no sense letting it go to waste.

Another nurse around 2:30 a.m. and I'm complaining about the nitro-headache I've got drumming, and she asks if I'd like her to remove the patch, and I'm not lucid enough to think "more aspirin please," I'm just thinking Billy Joel, right?  And I'd rather deal with a headache than a heart attack-ackackackackack.

Sometime after 3 a.m. and an alarm goes off in 12.  A nurse rushes in, she looks like a rockstar.  Maybe in the light of day the nurses wouldn't look like rockstars, not all of them, but in the middle of the night?  When you think you're dying and they rush in to attend to an alarm in 12?  They could all be on General Hospital.  No problem.  She tells me the alarm indicates that I'm not breathing.  Then she smiles a rockstar smile and says, "But I can see you are."  She kills the alarm and goes off for her closeup.

4:30 a.m. and another alarm.  A different rockstar comes in and I ask if the machine says I'm not breathing again.  Rockstar smile and she says, "It does.  But you are."  And a laugh.  "This unit," she says, "it's not very sensitive."  And all I can think is, this unit?  This unit that's monitoring my breathing?  Wow.

There's no Stress Test for me in the morning.  The test is still needed, but the treadmill isn't available until four in the afternoon.  There's Karen in the morning, though.  Happy with her coffee, and a present for me - the charger for my phone.  I can rest with Karen there.  I feel stupid that she's blowing off work, but I can rest.  It helps that a nurse changed the setting on the blood pressure cuff - it'll only go off on the hour.

Rest.

So I do that, I rest, a lot, with Karen basically holding my hand in between the calls she has to take and the emails she responds to.  But lots of that is done while I sleep.

Then the afternoon finally comes, late afternoon, and my treadmill awaits.  I get wheeled up to the second floor, and another nurse is going to prep me there.  She has me remove my tshirt - I'm glad I kept it on when I first put my gown on last night; it was some comfort against the cold.

She stares at my Greek chest, with the connections from last nights EKG buried in my stupid Mediterranean hair.  "Why would they do that?" she asks.  "We have to remove those," she says.  "We?" I say.  "No, not 'we,'" she says.  "Would you do it?" she says.  "I couldn't.  It's going to hurt."

Thanks, I didn't know that.  So I proceed to rip, and she winces and turns her head, and as I rip I read a sign on the wall in front of me.  What lovely words:

Prep the Patient with Alcohol

That's the ticket.  Why haven't I been Prepped with Alcohol?  I'm thinking about the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve that I have waiting at home.  I splurged.  It's a lovely 20-Year-Old Straight Bourbon Whiskey that I've been saving.  I thought when I finally finished a draft, when my Groop gathered to discuss the Great American Novel - we'd crack open that fine bottle of Pappy.  But now I'm thinking, what in the world am I saving it for?  My dad died and left behind a lot of bottles of the best that Metaxa has to offer.  Not the Seven Star, but the Very Old.  Why'd he save it?  So we would have something good to pour for those who came visiting that week after he died?

Why save it?

But of course the lovely words don't mean ply the patient with alcohol, I know what they mean as I riiiiippppp off the last of last night's electrodes.  They mean rub my skin with it, the same way Bridget rubbed alcohol on the back of my hand before she stuck me with the 20.  And my nurse will do that, after she shaves six patches from my chest, leaving me looking like a mangy Hellenic dog.  And then I read the words underneath Prep the Patient with Alcohol, and those words say:

Use Sandpaper on the Skin

Sandpaper my skin?  "Why do you do that?" I ask.  The nurse tells me it's to ensure that the electrodes don't slip off.  She's giving them a rough surface to stick onto.  She's wrong.  I'd find out that the sandpaper removes dead skin, and that by removing it, you're allowing the electricity that the heart produces to more easily travel to the electrodes.  I'd also learn that Prep the Patient with Alcohol was a pretty way to say Defat the Skin.  Defatting the Skin removes oil, and it's this process that ensures the adhesive base of the electrode properly adheres to the skin.  The sandpaper has nothing to do with that.

I mean, if you're going to do it day after day, why not know what you're doing?

We do the test.  Or, I do the test.  They monitor.  And although this doctor doesn't look like a rockstar, she's saying all the right things.  "Oh, you're a young guy."  Or:  "My goodness, there are candidates for the Police Academy who can't get the heart going like you are.  They have to, or they're out.  And many are left out, but look at you!"

I wish I had received Harry's text before I started.  "Don't try to prove anything on that treadmill," he wrote.  But I was trying to prove something.  It was only six minutes, the doctor said, the doctor wearing her non-rockstar sandals that showed her pedicured nails.  Two minute increments, each getting harder, and uphill.  I'd never done one before, it couldn't be that hard, especially with the frumpy doc telling me how young a guy I was, how I was putting the Police Academy applicants to shame.

Pant.  Pant.  Aren't we trying to figure out if I had had a heart attack, not induce one?

"Okay," the doc said, "you've done the six minutes" [praise Jay-sis!] "but can you give me one more?  To really test out your ticker?  C'mon, another one?"  And she turns to explain to the doctor in training, a doctor new to Kaiser, that she likes to stress the heart if she can.  She can read the results better that way.  She knows that's not how they teach it, but she's found it works.

So I pass.  And they discharge me.

No heart attack, they ruled that out - Kristina and Elizabeth, you're stuck with me, at least until an out-of-control bus does what my heart didn't do - but they didn't rule-in anything.  Couldn't give me a definitive reason for the Incident.  Stress?  Maybe.  I should be happy for stress, I guess.

*  *  *

It's late.  The kids and Karen, they sleep.  Next to me is the bottle of Pappy.  I've got a crystal glass chilling with ice right next to it.  I've had the bottle for about a year - Bernie scored it for me at Beltramo's down in Menlo Park.  I'd told him to look for Pappy in his travels, and he was in Beltramo's but didn't see it.  He thought he'd ask, why the heck not?  And the clerk smiled.  They did indeed have Pappy, the 20 Year.  You just had to ask for it.  So Bernie asked and called me at the store, all excited, and after getting my ok he got me a bottle, and when Scott heard about Pappy, he asked for a bottle, too.  But Scott was more a gentleman that I, because he brought a shotglass of Pappy into the warehouse for Bernie to try, a shotglass covered in Saran Wrap, wedged tight in a little box.  So Bernie tasted it before me, because I was saving mine.

Why was I saving the booze?  The better the booze, the better the reason to drink it, to share it with your friends.  Saving it.  For what?  For what would I be saving it?  So I'm going to stop here, stop trying to get down what happened over the past few days.  I'll stop, and pour Pappy.  I'll look at it - quiet there inside Waterford crystal - and admire its whiskey hue.  I'll sniff, savor the aroma.  Then I'll toast my dad.  Dad - I'm not saving the good stuff.  Is that ok?  I think it's ok, Dad.  I think it's ok.

Ah, dad.  I wish you could join me.  Why didn't we drink the Metaxa Very Old - why didn't we drink it together when we had the chance?

Just Cocktails

It begins with a bottle of rye.

The story, if it's any good, can't then start with just any bottle.  It has to be a bottle that'll stop you, a bottle that'll make you take notice, make you think to yourself, "I'd like to take you home and do things with you."

(rī)¹, a fabulous new rye whiskey, has its home in just such a bottle.  I know, I know.  (rī)¹ is a ridiculous name.  Rye is rye, and if you're going to go to the trouble of brewing it, and bottling it, and you do both things right, why hire some newbie design-school-grad to create a name that's pretentious?  It's not like rye drinkers are going to be taken in by fancy monikers, right?

Oh, but the bottle.  The bottle is a beauty.  There's a good inch of solid, clear glass at the bottom, so thick that it makes you think crystal.  And that crystal is the lovely foundation for the slender, elegant bottle that holds your rye, the bottle so tall and sexy that it reminds you of something you'd find a premium vodka in, but this isn't vodka, so the only thing that's clear is that beautiful base, because the rest is all rye whiskey, the whiskey rich amber with a hint of cherry red.  Flashy?  Sure.  But eye-catching in a good way.  This is not a slutty bottle.  Maybe that newbie grad was onto something after all.

Anyway, the bottle has been staring at me from the shelves of Alameda Cellars, a liquor store that's around the corner from the bookstore I manage.  Ever since I started working in Alameda, I've had to buy my own Diet Coke.  In San Francisco, Delaney's was next door, and the people who poured drinks there were my friends, and they were always happy to keep my glass full.

Of cola, ok?  Of cola.

But now I don't have a great bar like Delaney's right next door to me, so I have to buy my Coke, and on those days when I have the gumption to actually walk around the corner to Alameda Cellars, I'll score a sixpack there instead of buying onesie-twosies from the bagel shop.  The Cellars had a great deal on Bulleit Bourbon a few months ago, and that's when this bottle of rye first started making eyes at me.  Sitting there on her shelf, all lonesome, with bourbon for company but no sister ryes.

Just sitting.

I've mentioned that I'm into vintage cocktail books, yes?  Yes of course.  Imagine my delight, then, when Randy and Katy came a'visiting.  Katy was very pregnant (Evan would make his arrival in less than a week - welcome, Evan!) and I hadn't seen them since Arizona, in the Spring, so after hugs and handshakes, Randy hands over this book.

Now, if the bottle I've described was remarkable, this book was something else entirely.  Just Cocktails was its title, the title seemingly burned into its wooden cover.  Yes, both the front and back covers are wood, their edges gracefully chamfered, the covers – and all the pages in between – held together with a leather strap.  The title, Just Cocktails, printed above the etching of a fanciful rooster pecking at a martini glass, the rooster's tail feathers painted yellow, orange, green and red.

The book in such amazing condition that it's difficult to believe it was published in 1939.  But that's what it says on the title page:

Published by the Three Mountaineers, Inc.  Decorations by Tad Shell

and by decorations they mean dozens and dozens of wonderful drawings to accompany the dozens and dozens of incredible cocktails.  This is a book that doesn't spend lots of time setting the scene.  There's a little bit of that, sure, like in the chapter titled Cock Tales and Cocktails, where the editor gives us two stories for the origin of the word "cocktail."  W. C. Whitfield tells us of the revolutionary-age barmaid who tossed together drinks for Lafayette's officers, and snatched tail feathers from a nearby rooster to spear the cherries, and also the story of the buccaneers of the Spanish Main who stirred their potables with the plumage of West Indian Cocks.

So there's a little of that kind of color, with Tad Shell's intoxicating illustrations (see the buccaneer, above), but this book's main concern is just cocktails, and that's what W. C. Whitfield compiled here, so thank you, W. C.  And thank you, Randy and Katy, for thinking of me and putting it into my hands.

Let's end where we began – with that bottle.  Because all I needed was a little push to get it into my hands, the same hands that hold Just Cocktails.  I'll try its rendition of a Whiskey Sour

½ RYE
½ LEMON JUICE
POWDERED SUGAR

and since Just Cocktails  is a little vague when it comes to measurements, I'll use half a teaspoon of powdered sugar.  And then, because I'm already making judgment calls, I'm going to crack open the jar of Luxardo Cherries I scored at Blackwell's Wine and Spirits in San Francisco.  If you haven't been, go.  If God drank, he'd shop at Blackwell's.  They introduced me to Luxardo, The Original Maraschino Cherries, and assured me that they bore little resemblance to the neon red cherries you find in Shirley Temples.  Whiskey Sours often call for a cherry, so Luxardo it will be.

And I'll toast Mr. Whitfield for giving me the push, and Randy and Katy for giving me the book, and Evan.  Of course I'll toast Evan.  L'chaim!