Town car to La Guardia

THE WELL AND THE UNWELL

At the last minute I book a town car to Laguardia.

It will be in front of my building in twenty minutes.

Jackie (my 74 year old neighbor, a native of the west village- her nearly extinct New York accent gloriously intact) carries my bags down to the lobby and runs to a nearby deli for singles and fives for tips for skycaps and porters.

The town- car pulls up and the driver pokes his head out the car window.

"Roberts, Charlie Roberts?"

"Yup, that's me."

The driver is dark and tall and funny and familiar. He has the easy smile of a popular uncle or teacher. He takes charge of my one single piece of luggage as I ply myself and my two canes into the back of the car - a fresh New York Times tucked into a back seat pocket.

"Wait!"

Jackie rushes back to the car. My exit from the apartment complex is exciting to Jackie, like I’m Dorothy going home in the big balloon. She’s absolutely breathless.

"I got you two fives and ten singles.” She focuses on the handsome car and driver. “Well, Hello there! You mean if I cawl the numbuh Chawlie used, you'll show up fuh me?"

The driver likes Jackie right away. "That's right."

"What's your caw numbah? Do you have a pen? I wanna write your numbuh down."

(Jackie once told me she's afraid to take taxis because she's worried she’ll be kidnapped).

_______________

We drive east through midtown. The limo it tired. But it feels padded enough to experience that lovely feeling of gliding through the city as a soft voyeur instead of a hastled member. I feel free. I feel relief. This isn't so hard. I should travel! (I think). I relax.

I release a deep breath and look around the car.

"Is the New York Times for me?"

"Of course. And I have the Post up here too.”

The driver responds immediately like he’d been waiting for me to talk.

“The cover of the post has that fashion designer on the cover.

....t he fashion designer who killed himself."

(He means Alexander McQueen).

"This is unbelievable to me. These rich Americans. They have everything, money, freedom, a good life. They need for nothing and yet they are miserable. They're sad and depressed! I don't understand this."

I know what’s he’s saying, spoiled pathetic americans - but I ask,

"Don't you have any rich people where you're from?"

(I mean to me, being rich and famous dictates depression and ruin).

"Rich people? In Morocco? Yes. We have plenty of rich people.

But they aren't unhappy. Not like here. I guess this fashion designer was sad about his mother death? Everyone's mother dies. Maybe he felt alone. I don't know if he was married or had children."

"I don't think Alexander McQueen had kids. But I know he was married. To a man."

"Oh. He was “a gay".

"And he was British, he wasn't American. I think he lived in London."

"London, New York, it's really the same city."

This has occurred to me before. I studied in London. I did a commercial in London recently. So I agree.

"I guess that's kind of true. They are kind of the same. They're sister cities." I enjoy sizing up European cities - makes it sound like I fly to London periodically. I enjoy the the pretense.

"And Paris?" I add with delight, "Paris is a distant cousin!"

"Yes, this is true!" I can see the driver smile in the rearview mirror . "I like that... New York and Paris are second cousins. That’s right!"

"But my feeling" I go on, "My feeling about that designer, actually about suicide, my feeling is ... is that there must have been booze or drugs involved. I mean it's the fashion world. Don't all those glam super-rich designer types do drugs? Drugs and alcohol mess you up!”

I’m on a roll. Being driven around gives me a voice, so I go on.

You know what I think? YOU KNOW WHAT I REALLY THINK IS THE TRUTH OF IT? I think that to deal with the stress of life - of this life we're all forced to live every day - I think it's all about balance. If you mess up the balance of your life with alcohol or drugs... you're doomed. Everyone's life is held in the balance. We're all tightrope walkers, and we all have to watch it. Even good things can ruin the balance, too much money, too much success. Balance! - from what I've been reading, is the key to everything. Alexander McQueen messed up his balance."

The driver drives and considers my opinions.

"UNLESS?" I say, "Unless this guy was lost in his own ego. Maybe he thought his world was terribly important. That HE was terribly important. But you know, I believe we're all playing on the same level, everything that life has to offer can be enjoyed by everyone and it has nothing to do with your scene or status or money, it truly is about enjoying this moment, nature - the earth... equally available to everyone, and people lose sight of that. With all his money... why didn't he just get away?!"

"Go some where warm!" the driver says.

"Or even Iceland!” I say nonsensically.

“See nature. See something different from his suffocating designer world. Get away and go to Iceland!"

"That's right. That's RIGHT! I agree!" my driver is totally on my page. With my pale voice, and my frail sincerity, I gain his trust without a hitch.

We drive in vague discomfort waiting to think of something to say that can add and escalate our position.

I can’t think of anything so I offer,

"I'm on my way to Florida. My dad died."

"Oh. I am sorry."

"Yeah, so this trip is pretty much last minute."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry. May I ask, how old was your father?"

"Eighty- two."

"That's old! He lived a long life!"

"Yeah, he did. I guess that's right."

"What did your father do?"

"He was an advertising executive with TIME magazine. He traveled the world. He got to eat in the best restaurants in New York."

"That's nice, he was lucky."

“Yeah, he was lucky. My father was lucky.”

"What was he like?"

"My dad?"

"Yeah what was he like? Was he funny? Did he tell stories or jokes? What was he like?"

"Well, he wasn't funny, I guess. He was actually pretty moody."

"Moody!" the driver grins and repeats the word moody as if being moody were a good thing. But his elation doesn’t dent the look of remorse on my face.

"Yeah, he was moody. And he occasionally drank too much. He didn't like to exercise, which drove me crazy. He liked to sit in his chair and read papers all day."

"Ah. .... What did you do together?"

"My father and me?”

“When you were young.”

“Well, when I was kid, my Dad used to take me to boat shows. We would spend the day at a nearby marina getting in and out of glamorous motor boats and sail boats, some of them with elaborate cabins, some of them bleak and spare. My dad had an old VW bug that sputtered. I remember driving to these boats shows on cold October weekends in the noisy VW bug.

We camped.

My father liked to camp, we camped a lot together. My father forced me to partake in boyish outdoor activity, boy scouts, winter camping, hiking in state parks. I couldn't quite figure out what the point was when I was a kid. I remember asking him why we couldn't get a camper with a bathroom and a working kitchen... and a TV! Watching TV in a camper in the woods was about as good at it could get - for me - as a kid. I couldn't understand why my dad didn't see it that way. I’m sure it was a sad disappointment to my dad that he ended up with a kid that couldn’t embrace ll bean blucher moccasins and fishing.

But Now, I don't watch TV and I love to sleep outdoors - I ended up doing a lot of camping on my own. I have my own tents, foul weather gear, I’ve tented on my own near glaciers -like I'd always loved it -like I'd always been a scrubby little outdoorsy type. Not true. My dad forced it on me and it worked. Freezing in a canvas tent by a lake and a mountain is ideal to me, now.

Is your Dad still alive?"

"No he died twelve years ago. He died young. He was sixty four."

"Oh, I ‘s sorry. What did he die of?"

"He died of Alzheimer's."

"Hmm.... so it was neurological."

"Yes, that's right... neurological. My father was a great man. My father was a very important man in our city. He was the head of the police... very well respected. Everyone loved him. I revered him. But once he retired, he got lost. He objected to retiring- didn't want to retire - And once he did, he got sick. He died just a few years later."

"Do you still think about him?"

"Every day, many times a day, not a day goes by that I don't think about my father. But you and I, we can be different. We don't have to die that way. You and I, we can keep busy, stay busy, doing things we love."

"Yeah, I mean if you're aware. I mean now we're all aware that it's not a good idea to retire and then just sit at home. How long was your Dad sick?"

"Oh. A long time. Maybe two years."

"Did you try to stop it? I mean the disease. Did you try to help him?"

The driver shakes his head and winces, sadly, defensively. "No, I couldn't. When your time is up, it's over. There is nothing to be done. There is nothing left to do."

"Right. I see.”

But I can’t let this go. Because if I do, I’m hurting myself, maybe even cursing myself in some way.

“But I guess for me... for me I'll keep trying. "

"Are you getting help?"

"Sort of."

"Are you getting well?"

"I'm not sure."

"How long have you had this? How long have you needed help walking?"

"Oh, the canes? My gosh. Less than year. Actually it's only been three or four months."

"Oh!"

"Yeah, this is all new. So... I see a lot of therapists. And I changed my diet and I swim."

"Do you go to church?"

"I do. My grandparents were christian scientists, so I go to their church. I mean, I just started going this year. Christian Scientists don't believe in illness. They ask Christ to help them see themselves as they truly are, perfect creations, perfect reflections of G-d... it's hard to explain."

My driver looks worried. He takes some time and then risks,

"I am Muslim."

He says it with breath and bravery like he's not sure how it's going to sound until it comes out.

"Oh cool!" I coo like we're comparing music on ipods.

"Please" he says, “Please”,

He sounds very concerned so I scrunch up my brow and lean in closer to the front seat to hear him better.

"Please. When you pray? Please, I recommend that you pray directly to G-d, don't pray to Jesus... don't pray to the middle man... I recommend that you pray directly to G-d.

Have you read the Koran?"

"No I haven't."

"As Muslims, we know about Jesus. Jesus is mentioned in the Koran in many places"

The driver is talking to me carefully like I am a born again christian he doesn't want to offend.

"We believe Jesus existed. Mohammed... you know Mohammed, right?"

"Sure. Of course" I answer unsteadily.

"Mohammed mentions Jesus in the Koran many times. But we don't think he is ... what you say... the father?"

"The son of G-d?"

"Right. We don't see him as the son of G-d. And (he adds casually) he never died."

"On the cross? No resurrection?"

"Right. It was someone else on the cross. Not Jesus."

"Got it."

"Also we believe there was a chapter about Mohammed in the bible that was removed."

"Oh. Interesting.” I’m playing it very smooth here because in all honesty I’m just a curious spiritual type looking to save myself. And I don’t want to come off as prejudiced. But if I’m too relaxed, then what kind of g-d fearing Christian am I? I’m feeling fake. So I focus on the practical.

“So do YOU pray to G-d for guidance or say, health? Does G-d help YOU?"

"Yes. G-d helps me. But we believe that one should not look up to the heavens. When you look up to the heavens you become overwhelmed and dizzy. We look down, because when you look down you see there are people that are worse off than you. G-d created the rich and the poor, the well and the unwell. If I pray with my face down, I will understand where I fit in and I will realize that there are people who are worse than I am, and for this... I can be grateful."

I'm feeling a little queasy about the Koran. Doesn't seem like Mohammed will offer me much help.

"Did Muhammad create miracles?"

"Yes" he measures, "Muhammad made miracles"

"Because you know Jesus was pretty impressive when it comes to miracles."

"Well... Mohammed couldn't read or write and THAT was his first miracle"

Not exactly walking on water but I offer, "Wow!"

"Would you like to know more about the Koran."

"I'd love it. To be honest, I never thought much about Muslims until 9/11. In fact that's the only reason I know about Muslims. Sufis and Shia... right? Are you a Sufi?"

"Yes I am."

"The Sufis are more conservative?"

They're pretty much the same. We don't go to graves to pray to the dead and the Shias do."

“Right.”

I can't think of anything else to say so I nod and say, "Mecca".

"Yes... Mecca" my driver agrees to be polite.

And then I remember " There's a temple on East 88th. I've walked past it a few times. Ever been there?"

"I know there is one on East 96th. But it's not new."

"Oh yeah, 96th. That's the one I was thinking of.'

"You should visit on a Friday. You worship on Sunday, the Jews on Saturday, and we worship on Friday. Pick up a copy or the Koran. It's very similar to the bible. Has all the same things."

We arrive at Delta. My driver retrieves my one bag from the trunk and I try to hoist myself from the passenger seat onto the sidewalk. But I can't do it.

"I think I'm going to need some help."

The driver holds the passenger door steady. I grab the top of the door and pull myself up to a standing position.

"Good. I made it. Thank you."

"Can’t I help you check in?"

"No, I'm good. I got it. The sky caps will take care of me.”

My driver looks uneasy. My driver doesn't want to leave me. My driver feels responsible for me now because we’ve shared about the importance of enjoying life, we shared about our fathers, we openened up about prayer and G-d.

So I tell him,

"I'm fine. I'll be fine.” I smile. “And I promise to read the Koran."

The driver smiles back.

"Good. Stay Well".

And he drives away.