Tidbits of Two Feasts

WEDNESDAY: St. Anne's Feast in Hoboken

• 5:45 AM. Hell no. Not after a race.

• 6 AM. I better move or I'll miss the train.

• 6:32 AM. I exit the shower and my dad calls in to forget catching the train because we'll never make it now...

• 6:37 AM. After driving like a maniac, a 76-year-old man gets us to the local train station with a series of maneuvers than included the rarely implemented “left on red”.

• 6:43 AM. The train arrives on time.

• 8 AM. After arriving at Penn Station, we walk one block to pick up the PATH train. The machine takes my money, and I make it through the turnstile, down the platform, and on to the waiting train. The timing is perfect. I stand in the door and look back for my dad. He's still on the other side of the turnstiles. He's put his instrument down and he's fumbling with his money. People walk around him. The warning bell sounds so I step off the train. “You know, I'm an old man!” he grouses; I haven't said a word. The next train arrives within a few minutes.

• 8:30 AM. We arrive in Hoboken where the band leader waits with three other guys, including a father and son from Brooklyn whose band we usually play for. It's a tight fit in the SUV and the son has to stand with his posterior out the window, in his own words, “givin' deh ladies a show.”

• 8:45 AM. Some of the other band members are holding a parking spot near the church. Parking is bad in Hoboken, with green permit signs overriding all alternate side of the street parking signs. The band members have permits for the day.

• 9-11 AM. We wait for the procession to start, and wonder why we had to arrive so early when the mass is at 10, and we don't actually begin playing until 11:30. Nearby, one of the guys in this band razzes the Brooklyn band leader's son about his weight. “How old are you now? 32? You better start going to the doctor. It's time to make some visits my friend. You don't go because you don't like what he's gonna tell you. He's going to tell you to eat less and exercise more.” Tragically, the son stares away and ignores him before starting a conversation with someone else. I think about one of the older guys that used to play with us, who used to say the son “eats like he has nine a**holes!” Sitting on the edge of a stage and I lie back and close my eyes. I catch a quick nap before my dad shakes my ankle.

• 11:30 AM - 4:30 PM. We meander through the streets of Hoboken, leading a statue and throngs of people. There are few food or drink stops at first, but after the first hour or so we come to a place with water and sandwiches. I try to “tough it out” and not drink anything, but start to feel lightheaded as the breeze gives way to humidity. Someone mentions the temperatures going above 90°, and when I see melted asphalt I decide to drink water at the next stop. At one point we see an elderly couple loading groceries into their trunk and have the sad duty of pointing out to them that local authorities have placed a boot on their back left tire. Five hours go by surprisingly fast, and at the end when we wait by an outdoor bar for our compensation I enjoy a free beer because %^&* it; I've earned it.

• 5:20 PM. Walking down the steps to the PATH train, I try to move my favorite sunglasses up on to my head and somehow succeed in flipping them up into the air. I grab at them and make it worse, somehow tossing them on to the other side of the steps where my Brooklyn band leader nearly steps on them. “Now you know what it's like!” says my dad as I retrieve my shades, “Wait till you get to be my age!” At the turnstile this time I let my dad go ahead and I put the bills into the machine for him. Of course he gets through fine, but my dollar keeps getting folded in half and rejected. It's an odd phenomena I have no time to admire as rush hour commuters push past me, anxious to get home.

• 5:51 PM. Back at Penn Station, I admire the new screens that have replaced the dated flip panels that spun to change the signs indicating destinations, times, and tracks. Despite traveling to the city more frequently than I to go to his doctor in New Jersey, my dad doesn't notice any difference in the big board.

• 6:15 PM. As we board our train, I note no indication of the dreaded “change at Jamaica. Indeed, we had caught a rare direct line home. About five stations from our destination, I opened my eyes and realized I had fallen asleep against the glass.

• 7:15 PM. Home at last, and more than halfway through the work week. I'd soon sleep good.

* * *

THURSDAY: Feast of Our Lady of Snow, Brooklyn

• 5:30 PM. I decide to save filling out one last form for the next day, as I'm expecting my dad to meet me down in the parking lot with our friend Bill the trumpet player. It feels wrong leaving so early, especially after being off the day before. In my brain, I hear the voice of Robert Stack inform me, ”I can't deal with that now!” My phone rings, and my mom asks me to check the car for her arboretum keys when my dad arrives, because she can't find them. Less than a minute later, the phone rings again and she lets me know that she found them in her purse.

• 5:45 PM. No sign of my fellow musicians. I hate not having a car, and an illness creeps up within me, a festering voice telling me I could have gotten more work done before I left.

• 5:50 PM. My dad races through the parking lot, ignoring my wave to pull into a parking spot. He soars around and for a second I think he's going to run me over. I step aside and he stops perfectly for me to hop in the back. Despite the fact that I told him I was going out for a big lunch for a departing coworker, there's still a bag with a McDonald's bacon cheeseburger and fries waiting for me. It's way too early for dinner, but parents get pouty when they think they've done something nice for you and you still don't want it after telling them already like twelve times you didn't want it. I avoid the fight and eat the food, figuring I can just skip dinner later.

• 6:33 PM. We arrive in Brooklyn. My dad drives crazier than I've ever seen him. “I don't want Tony to be pacing!” he shouts at one point when I scream at him to stop for a red light. I remind him that I told the band leader I would be leaving work at 5:30, and confirmed that while he asked us to be there at 6:30, the event didn't actually begin until 7. The first thing I do when we get there is collect his keys.

• 7:03 PM. The band leader's son, a drummer, has us play a fast song with a lot of high notes, a bad idea for a warm-up. My lips are numb against the metal after playing so much the day before, but I manage to get all the notes out.

• 7:45 PM. The procession arrives at the local church. The band leader tells us we have a break until 8:00 while the parishioners have a ceremony inside. His son makes a beeline for the nearby White Castle, accompanied by his self-proclaimed “girlfriend-fiancée-whatever”. In the last five years or so, this kid has fathered an illegitimate son he subsequently disavowed, married his first wife and brought her in to his parents’ home where both enjoyed a pool and free meals rent-free, divorced her and took up with a single mother of two who overdosed and committed suicide after losing custody of her children a few months ago, and found his new “girlfriend-fiancée-whatever” with whom he now lives. It takes me longer to find new sneakers than it does for him to find a new girl.

• 8:15 PM. The ceremony is definitely running long. The sky is dark and clouds are gathering, threatening rain. The “girlfriend-fiancée-whatever” gripes about how long things are taking and how ridiculous it is. Apparently she refused to eat White Castle food, but now keeps repeating the phrase, “I could have been having my dinnah by now!” I neither offer the opinion that she could afford to skip a meal nor suggest she find some babies to snack on. I'm better than that, and figure I can always write it down to get it out of my system later. I’m not that good, after all. I also don't join in a “deep” theological discussion when she throws a mitt around her boyfriend-fiancée-whatever's neck and explains that Judaism and Catholicism are identical. Apparently both worship different gods, but then collect money, then say “hallelujah.” He's a lucky, lucky man.

• 8:45 PM. Finally, the church empties and we play the crowd out. The procession back to the society where we began doesn't take long either, but the flashes in the sky are ominous for those of us with metal instruments. “Anybody got wooden cymbals?” jokes one of our drummers.

• 9 PM. We play the final hymn and fanfare as the first few drops of rain hit. We're officially done playing for the next week-and-half, and I look forward to the break. As we head back to the car, I wonder if we'll beat the storm.

• 9 PM-10:30 PM. The further East we drive, the worse things get. In the distance, impressively thick bolts of lightning bombard the same targets. Has Destro perfected a new Weather Dominator? The road becomes slick and reflective, and I can no longer see the lines between the lanes. Rain pelts the windshield and the wipers do nothing at the highest setting. Eventually I have no choice but to get off the highway and use side roads. “Is anybody on my right?” I ask my dad as I begin my attempt to exit. “No, there’s just one car behind you,” he finally replies, after I’ve already changed lanes. I turn on the radio, and the weatherman safely informs the audience that “we may see a storm or two moving through our area now, some stronger than others.” Meteorology is a profession that thrives on being vague. By the time we get Bill home, the lightning is done and there's naught but a light drizzle. Fog is the only menace as the high temperatures cause the water on the roads to evaporate.

• 11 PM. Nearly home, my dad complains about my driving. I was too close to this guy. At this light I almost hit the car in front of me. Was I falling asleep or something? I was exhausted. I don't like driving in rain that heavy, and as tired as my eyes were the reflective quality of the road doubled the lights ahead of me. Maybe I was too close to the other car or maybe my dad was watching the mirage. The latter would explain phrases like “you're right on top of that guy!” Yes, I drove my car directly over another car parked upside down under the road.

• 2 AM. I can't believe I stayed up to write. Has anyone out there ever felt too tired to sleep? Oh well, TGIF.