And Don't the Kids Just Love It

The Michiganders.

They're a lovely older couple from Eastern Michigan. A dairy farmer and a teacher, visiting their daughter. We met them at a bar. They bought our pumpkin ale and we offered to show them Brooklyn. We were boastful, loud; we guaranteed them they would love it. "You need to see it up close," I told them. "We'll pick you up in the morning." Which is how I find myself, exhausted, sandwiched between them in the back seat of a little hatchback early on Saturday. We take them to Tom's for breakfast, and Gus gives me a kiss and asks, "Has our little Australian gone back?" and he is wistful when I tell him she has; it's so easy to love Jess. The Michiganders are amazed at the variety of pancakes and ponder sweetly what a cherry lime rickey might be. She calls him Dad. He's shy, and quiet. I wonder aloud if he misses his farm.

We buy them cheese fries and hot dogs in Coney Island, and they don't mind that the wind and drizzle is messing up their hair; they're good sports, and they laugh with big, booming midwestern laughter. They like Kensington and Flatbush and Sheepshead Bay, and even Bay Ridge, though I tell them they don't need to. In Rockaway, Dad kicks at the sand and has a smoke as they both marvel at the unexpectedness of these little beach houses, at the quiet. "This is New York City?" they ask. "Are you sure?"

Mario.

With our friend Peggy, we've climbed up to the loft of the giant Williamsburg apartment that he's playing in. For a different view, a new view. It's a strange party; pop bands alternating with hardcore ones. The crowd has been eyeing each other suspiciously since it started. The last band is playing and the music is deafening. I squeeze his arm and shout, "I think my head is going to explode." He stares at me blankly; his hands are covering his ears and he can't hear me at all. Outside, the JMZ train is clattering by, back and forth. It's so close we can see people looking out the windows of the train cars; when I wave at them, a little boy waves back.

Mario is a friend from Oakland. I only see him once a year, at the most...long enough to tell him my secrets and for him to give me advice on children's behavioral modification and long enough for us to gossip, laughing hysterically, on an empty roof under the Williamsburg bridge. Long enough for him to find my soccer game on Sunday despite the enormity of Prospect Park. Mario is the cat's namesake (as is Jim Flood). When the veterinarian's receptionists call "Mario Allen!" at the annual check-ups, they must wonder why I'm laughing, Mario, and it's because I'm thinking of you. How you sing along with the radio. How you remove the onions from a burrito with the skill of a surgeon.


*This update typed while listening to Air Miami.