Back at the Ranch

It was mid 30's and raining consistently with a good, stiff breeze. Needless to say it was not the time to go gallivanting through the city streets with neither purpose nor care. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the inclement weather was threating to ground the balloons for the Macy's day parade. Celebrities were cancelling their appearances on the floats, wary parade goers changed their plans. Again, it was not the time to go gallivanting through the city streets with neither purpose nor care. So what was I heading off to do you ask... gallivant.

I am convinced that reason and logic have and will continue to take a back seat in my decision making process to a great story for my grandkids. I look forward to the day when they sit around and ask about the time I wrecked my boss's truck, or the time I snuck into Madison Square Garden, maybe even kicking pigeons in central park. At this point in time my own children will roll their eyes every time I start mentioning the time we brought home the wild mustangs, but eventually they'll find themselves sucked in again, sitting beside their children and listening, because there's always something that brings you back to a good story, even if it's for the thousandth time. I figure I have another 40 years at least before I need all my stories, and I think I'm making good time, but will no doubt have many great Ben Foster stories, as well as some fantastic "Uncle Troy" stories that will live in infamy.

My thanksgiving was another small point along the long line of stupid things still to come.

I'd seen it on TV. I never really watched it because there was always something better to do; sneak food from the kitchen, help Lankford stretch for the Turkey Bowl, better yet sleep in. I wouldn't say that it was high on my priority list of goals in life, it was more one of the things to do while you're in New York. Why not? So, at 12:15 am Micah and I boarded a very empty train from Ronkonkoma to Penn Station. It was a long train ride in. We spent some time reading the left-behind gossip columns about Michael Richard's racist ranting. Micah likes to kill the time by trying to create new t-shirts sayings. In light of the week's events I came up with Ku Klux Kramer -- it's trademarked, so don't steal it. There was also talk of the "Screw Chicago, how about Oprahoma", it was late at night and it was funny to us.

We made it into Penn, and the majority of people there were already drunk. I now know that Thanksgiving Eve is apparently a pretty big party night in the city, who knew? It was a good 7 hours until the parade started, and there was little time to complete all the tasks at hand, so we continued on our way.

We were informed by a knowledgable source before we left that the upper west side was the place to be because that's where they'd spend all night blowing up the balloons, so we figured we'd head in that direction. Before long we came across my first goal: Ray's Pizza. There are a lot of Ray's Pizzas, and they all say they're the original, but they're not. I could tell you which one it really is, but then I'd have to kill ya.

We were approached by a homeless man with a really good story about needing money for insulin. Micah opted to give him food, by far the smarter decision, considering that's what you need before insulin. I went with the spare change route. This aggrivated Micah, but my rebuttle was that it wasn't that bad, it was more along the lines of diplomacy, in case he hadn't noticed it was cold, and a good trash can fire is hard to come by, maybe when we run into him later on we can catch up on the diabetes story and a little heat. Regardless, both answers were satisfactory for our new friend. Alas, we went our separate ways.

It was cold enough that a good cigar would definitely be in order later when we settled down for bed, so Micah went to his favorite 24 hour cigar shop. It's around 2:30 am at this point. Long story short, he spent a good thrity minutes trying to haggle the shopkeep out of a mid-90's cigar afficianado magazine with Chuck Norris on the cover "Even good guys smoke cigars" it said. It was in the window display outside. I spent the time inside looking at the novelty lighters and trying to find the perfect mild cigar that would last long enough to keep us warm. Micah kept going in and out, always with a counter offer. The debate quit when I walked outside to hear Micah's new friend, the trash man, set the bar. "I wouldn't pay more than $15." Micah went inside with new zeal, but they wouldn't drop below $25. We all have our pirnciples I guess. We left with two cigars, no magazine, and an undaunted spirit. There was still a lot to do.

We stopped by Rockefeller to see the tree before there was anything on it, that joker's huge. There are two NYPD guarding the thing around the clock, which dispelled any previous illusions of a pre-emptive decoration. Undaunted, we continued on our way. Kicking a pigeon was next on the list. On a side note, if you've never done it, it's quite therapeutic. Don't roll your eyes in disgust, you don't haul off and punt the pigeon to kingdom come, it's simply a previously undesired though quickly comprehended aid in flight. Really, it's good all the way around.

Central Park. We're on the upper west side scouting out the bleachers for the parade tomorrow. It's about 3:15 am, we have less than four hours left. Now, Central park would be the ideal place to aid the pigeon in flight, but unless you forgot, it's the middle of the night, 35 degrees now, and still raining. There were no pigeons to be found. There was nothing to be found. I can honestly tell you the most abundant species, inluding humanity, in all of central park, was raccoons. We saw at least three. They're fat as all get out, and have perfected the New York stare. I was actually ready for one to say, "What the ..... are you looking at?" Intimidated, we continued on our way.

The skating rink, perhaps Micah's second largest goal of the night. It costs $11 during the week, and $14 on the weekend. It's always crowded, never serene. Well kids, at 3:45 am it's quiet, empty and free. Micah met goal number two, ripping his pants and getting a nice raspberry along the way. Every goal that was possible had been met, save the most important one, the culminating event of the evening: a good night's rest.

There are a lot of hotels in the city. We had friends in an apartment not too far away. The options were limitless. On a cold, rainy night, soaking wet standing in the middle of Central Park we could have headed in any direction and found a warm, safe place to stay. But how, 40 years from now, am I going to be able to look my grandchildren in the eye and tell them I slept in an apartment after a night like this. No sir, this is what the story's all about.

Micah had a nice bridge picked out. I honestly forgot where it was, but eventually we found it. It was recessed, under the ground, where the rain and wind wouldn't be a factor. It was the perfect place to finally get some rest, except for one thing, it was already taken. Figures, the first person we see in all 843 acres just happens to be in the only place we don't want anyone to be. Slightly disappointed we moved on. We kept travelling north, that is until the Harlem border, in which case we turned back around. We might be crazy, but we're not stupid. I want a story for the grankids, just not that one.

Evenutally we found another nice bridge, above ground, slightly susceptible to the wind, but still a dry place to lay our heads. Still one problem, occupied. 0 for 2 in the bridge picking. This was a significantly larger bridge, some thirty feet across and 70 feet long. Due to the cold weather, rain, and being incredibly tired, we deemed our new home big enough for three people. Apparently we were wrong.

Being newcomers to tunnel dwelling we were unaware as to the powerful acoustic presence a tunnel has. Huddled up with a good cigar this late at night our conversation had moved into complete delirium, debating the colors the streets lamps are when you turn your head, or how exciting a plate of scrambled eggs will be in the morning. Evidently, the idiosyncrasies of the jumbled morning plans were too much for our new neighbor who let out a hearty groan, threw his covers off, and proceeded to grab his two suit cases and find another place of solace. That was officially one of my most awkward moments... ever. It took the man three trips to get all his stuff. I wanted to help, but that would risk pissing him off even more. So I did what any good New Yorker would do, minded my own business, waited for him to leave, then ran over and grabbed his side of the tunnel, because it was better. Micah fell alseep pretty quick, spread eagle on his back. I spent the rest of the night, cold and wet, huddled in a ball, trying to dream about breakfast instead of praying someone wouldn't pee on me in the middle of the night.

I woke up at 6:15 to two Great Danes standing over me, not the ideal wake-up call in my opinion. Apparently there's a large contingency of city folk who walk their huge dogs early in the morning so they don't have to worry about leash laws. Needless to say, I wasn't going back to sleep. I spent a good 20 minutes watching people watch their dogs and listening to Micah snore, all the while shiverring, wanting breakfast like you wouldn't believe.

I kicked Micah until he woke up, reminding him that he promised me eggs in the morning. He mutterred something in his half asleep voice along the lines of "This must be what it's like to be married." I kicked him again. He said, "my point exactly", then he got up. It was still raining, and even colder than before. We started making our way over to where the parade would be, we barely made it out of the park before we hailed a cab and went back to Penn. Sopping wet, shivering, having met all the possible goals for the evening we got on the LIRR and went home.

I would love to say that we set out that evening for some kind of great moral lesson, a spiritual awakening or pilgrimmage of some kind. Truthfully, it was just to say that we spent the night in Central Park. However, I can honestly tell you that never before, and hopefully never again, have I had a more meaningful insight into the idea of Thanksgiving. I went home, took a hot shower, ate a wonderful Thanksgiving meal that I had no part in preparing, and felt a sense of gratitude and thankfulness unlike any other before. I don't care what your opinion is on homeless people, whether it's a series of unfortunate events, bad decisions, or a money-making scheme -- there's not a soul alive that would want to be sleeping beneath a bridge in Central Park in the nearly freezing rain if they had something better to go home to, not a soul. Be thankful for what you've been given, it's a lot more than what you deserve.