MRS. MAGILLICUDDY IN BROOKLYN
The flight was an hour, a stress free, smooth adventure into the surreal, and I arrived at JFK Airport in New York City with no troubles at all. Walking slowly and with measured excitement, I looked for the shuttle bus I had booked the week before which was supposed to deliver me to my hotel in Brooklyn.
After waiting 30 minutes, I called the shuttle service to figure out what was happening. Perhaps I was waiting in the wrong area, which I thought was a real possibility since the airport is one of the largest in the world. The sun was shining, the temperature a pleasant 78 degrees, and I was looking forward to taking a nice cool shower in my hotel room.
“No, you’re at the right place” said the woman on the other end of the line, the pre-requisite Brooklyneeze accent intact.
“We just ain’t going to Brooklyn today.”
“Come again?” I asked. “Did you say you’re not going to Brooklyn today?” My excitement quickly switched to incredulous; after all, I had paid for a ride. What the heck was going on?
“Nah. Reverand Al Sharpton and all the demonstrators, ya know? Those guys are tying up traffic everywhere, so we figured ‘eh? Why bother?’, since we’d be losing money just sittin’ on the parkway. So, no – we ain’t going to Brooklyn today.”
The phone went dead. Welcome home, Mrs. Magillicuddy.
Mrs. Magillicuddy was what my uncle called me when I was little and living in the suburbs of Long Island. Driving to Brooklyn to visit the relatives was a weekly Sunday tradition, and I never tired of it. Viewing the emerging high rise buildings over the horizon, I imagined one day I would work in Manhattan and maybe even live in one of them. For the meantime, I would have to be content to sit with my grandparents, my aunt & uncle and their only daughter, my cousin.
After walking up and down the taxi lanes, I finally found a car service that was willing to go to Brooklyn that day, and my rescuer was in the form of a 77 year old bull of a man – Rosario.
“You shoulda write abouta me, man do I gotta story” he said in broken English. He had asked me why I was in NYC and I told him I was a writer, attending a book signing at the Barnes & Nobles on Court Street.
“Lets a ride around for a while, til those people break up” referring to the Al Sharpton brigade. “I no a charge you for the ride.” He was right. He had a helluva story. One of these days I might even write it. But for now, I was concentrating on the stories I had written for my children, so many, many years ago.
Arriving at the Barnes & Noble later the next evening, I was pleasantly surprised to see my face and my name in big, bold letters on special made posters and displays which held piles of copies of my book.
“Welcome our Guest Author, Eileen Loveman” the manager said as I stood to speak into the microphone. I still couldn’t believe I was standing in a book store, about to read what I had written, to a audience which inhabited a two story building and would be listening to me read as they shopped or drank their coffee in the Starbucks section. I don’t know how many books were sold that night or if I even sold any at all. But I was working and in Barnes & Nobles in Brooklyn. Just like I had dreamed.
Welcome home, Mrs. Magillicuddy. Indeed.
www.eileenloveman.com
After waiting 30 minutes, I called the shuttle service to figure out what was happening. Perhaps I was waiting in the wrong area, which I thought was a real possibility since the airport is one of the largest in the world. The sun was shining, the temperature a pleasant 78 degrees, and I was looking forward to taking a nice cool shower in my hotel room.
“No, you’re at the right place” said the woman on the other end of the line, the pre-requisite Brooklyneeze accent intact.
“We just ain’t going to Brooklyn today.”
“Come again?” I asked. “Did you say you’re not going to Brooklyn today?” My excitement quickly switched to incredulous; after all, I had paid for a ride. What the heck was going on?
“Nah. Reverand Al Sharpton and all the demonstrators, ya know? Those guys are tying up traffic everywhere, so we figured ‘eh? Why bother?’, since we’d be losing money just sittin’ on the parkway. So, no – we ain’t going to Brooklyn today.”
The phone went dead. Welcome home, Mrs. Magillicuddy.
Mrs. Magillicuddy was what my uncle called me when I was little and living in the suburbs of Long Island. Driving to Brooklyn to visit the relatives was a weekly Sunday tradition, and I never tired of it. Viewing the emerging high rise buildings over the horizon, I imagined one day I would work in Manhattan and maybe even live in one of them. For the meantime, I would have to be content to sit with my grandparents, my aunt & uncle and their only daughter, my cousin.
After walking up and down the taxi lanes, I finally found a car service that was willing to go to Brooklyn that day, and my rescuer was in the form of a 77 year old bull of a man – Rosario.
“You shoulda write abouta me, man do I gotta story” he said in broken English. He had asked me why I was in NYC and I told him I was a writer, attending a book signing at the Barnes & Nobles on Court Street.
“Lets a ride around for a while, til those people break up” referring to the Al Sharpton brigade. “I no a charge you for the ride.” He was right. He had a helluva story. One of these days I might even write it. But for now, I was concentrating on the stories I had written for my children, so many, many years ago.
Arriving at the Barnes & Noble later the next evening, I was pleasantly surprised to see my face and my name in big, bold letters on special made posters and displays which held piles of copies of my book.
“Welcome our Guest Author, Eileen Loveman” the manager said as I stood to speak into the microphone. I still couldn’t believe I was standing in a book store, about to read what I had written, to a audience which inhabited a two story building and would be listening to me read as they shopped or drank their coffee in the Starbucks section. I don’t know how many books were sold that night or if I even sold any at all. But I was working and in Barnes & Nobles in Brooklyn. Just like I had dreamed.
Welcome home, Mrs. Magillicuddy. Indeed.
www.eileenloveman.com
