Walkalog: Across the Park and Through the Snow
Throwing a baby shower for women only is currently unconstitutional in Manhattan. So, when the parents and in-laws of a former associate of Kathleen’s gave the couple a baby shower, at a multicameral West Side eatery, I was expected to show up. This was something of a hardship, because, even in the absence of a rock band, conversation at such an event is almost impossible. Even with men on hand, a baby shower brings out the side of women that Lerner & Loew’s Henry Higgins complains about. (Discretion forbids me to elaborate.)
There was, for example, a game of Bingo. The squares on the cards were filled out with items from the baby shower registry, and players were to check them off as gifts were opened. The trouble was, the men opening the presents weren’t always sure of what they’d just unwrapped, and a few items, such as “baby fingernail clipper,” were not contemplated by the designers of the cards. There was much discussion about whether “baby keys” and “rattle” were identical, until I pointed out that both items appeared on my card. The prize was the centerpiece on each table: a large piggy-bank in the form of a baby bottle, filled with pink jelly beans. When no one seemed to have pencils for the Bingo, I suggested that we use the few remaining jelly beans that, having been scattered in drifts on each table, still remained uneaten. Pencils were produced forthwith.
Kathleen dashed off after her starter bowl of soup. Poof! She was gone. And, with her, any chance of making a graceful early exit. I wasn’t having a bad time, but there were all sorts of things that I wanted to be doing at any home — an excuse that, shared as it was by every man in the room, including, I’ve no doubt, the expectant father, was therefore too lame to venture. I knew most of the people I was seated with, although the most interesting topic — Kathleen’s Shocking True Stories of Mad & Deranged Clients — was obviously off limits. I sat back and ate my lunch like a good boy.
The one thing that I didn’t have to worry about was an event that never ended. From the moment we arrived, it was clear that the party was “running late.” Shortly past four — not bad at all, really — I was out on the street, walking past the Dakota toward the Park.
Three of the many beasties guarding the perimeter of the Dakota. Alas, they didn’t protect John Lennon.
There had been snow during dessert, but the sky was clearing when the shower broke up. Once I was inside the Park, however, it began to snow again, and as I made my way along the sad little service road that runs between the 86th Street transverse and the reservoir, I found myself in a momentary blizzard. It was also very chilly. I had to put my gloved hands in my coat pockets to stop the shooting pains of cold. By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, the show had given up blowing from all four corners of the compass, and the sky was clear again, with sunlight warming the higher reaches of taller buildings.Â
To make for a perfect happy ending, the other elevator was working when I got home. But let’s not go into that.Â