My mother would often reflect that, when meeting people or entering unfamiliar territory, first impressions were important. So, when Joe and I flew to New York recently to visit Roberto and Jen (our eldest daughter), and explore their turf, I fluffed my hair and packed carefully; Roberto -- and sophisticated New Yorkers -- would be presented with mid-westerners possessing minimal nasal twang and perhaps a touch of class.
The area, teeming with neighborhood shops, interesting people and a forest of skyscrapers, would offer a fascinating combination of cultures and rich architectural diversity -- fair game for my eager pen.
My very first impression was, um, memorable.
We flagged a taxi for Brooklyn from JFK. It was well after 7 p.m.; night had truly fallen. As this small-town girl, electrified by the dramatically lit skyline, gazed out the window, a beautifully lighted billboard loomed out of the darkness. Like New York, this one was HUGE. Suddenly I sat up straight, incredulous. As our cab moved slowly out of the crowded terminal area and onto the busy highway we were treated to a doctor's-eye view of a well-lighted hemorrhoid.
Surely NOT! I was sleepy, having been up since 4 a.m. My overtired, weary eye had mis-seen ... Blinking, I timidly checked again. Yep. The sign, in gigantic, flaming red letters against a brownish-black background, read:
"GOT HEMORRHOIDS?" Then, under that --
"SAY NO TO SURGERY."
And underneath that, slightly smaller,
"THE PROCTOLOGY CLINIC," followed by a phone number.
Now, here's the thing. That big first "O" in "PROCTOLOGY" was gone; in its place sat the hemorrhoid, in full bloom.
Truly.
I bent double, speechless, convulsed with laughter, for what seemed like hours.
Right then, I knew New York would never disappoint.
(That bilious billboard reappeared again and again as I was ferried, via bike basket-nest -- see last Sunday's column -- all over New York. Huh. I decided the citizenry was experiencing a positive plague of hemorrhoids. The enormous expense associated with renting so many gargantuan, electrified signs was clearly a monetary drop-in-the-bucket for the procto-guys. Piles of desperate people were seeking out their clinics, eliminating that worry.)
Our taxi driver, a Yemeni immigrant, was a garrulous fellow who spoke English fluently, but with a decided accent. After quizzing us about Michigan, he gleefully shared a joke. Still recovering from the hemorrhoid, I braced myself: anything could happen.
A lady owned a talkative parrot: The wretched bird simply wouldn't shut up. Constant comments about politics, her thickening waistline, the plumbing, and endless verbal diarrhea about soap operas drove her to distraction. Finally, she'd had enough. Snatching up the bird, she popped it into the freezer. Thirty blissfully quiet minutes later she took it out again. Shivering, the subdued parrot sat quietly on its perch, eyeing the freezer with haunted eyes. "Now, Herman," she said, "Will you be quiet when I say so?" "Oh, yes, I promise!" it whispered, respectfully. Then, with permission, it timidly dared to venture one question.
"WHAT did the turkey do?"
Ahmed dropped us off in front of their building and cheerfully chugged away. Jen and Roberto settled us into their delightful condo while I, still weak with laughter, repeated our taxi-tale, and described that incredible billboard, to hoots -- they knew it well.
Roberto, an architect, had just been made partner, so we opened a bottle of superb wine and toasted his promotion, that horrid flaming hemorrhoid and Herman, the articulate, stifled parrot. Finally, exhausted by laughter, we collapsed into sleep. More riveting New York times would unfold tomorrow; here, anything was possible.
I dreamed of ... well, you know.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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