The Mama & The Papa (And The Brother, Too!)

Last week, my parents and younger brother came to visit me. I was incredibly excited to see them, especially after being away from the three of them for my first year of college, and then not spending a whole lot of time with them this summer. However, I was also a tad bit nervous. My brother HATES New York. Like, out of all the cities in the world, New York is probably one of his least favorites. Granted, he is not a city boy. Give him the Irish countryside any day, and he will be blissfully transported into his own personal utopia. Don’t get me wrong, he has nothing against the people of this city, but when I asked him to describe why he disliked it to me, he said that Manhattan was rank with what he thought to be the smell of hot urine and he felt that there were crazy people surrounding him at every turn. (To be fair, we probably did walk past a spot or two of hobo pee, and he seems--much like me--to attract the zaniest of people. It’s as if we were both born with foreheads that had the words “Creepers Come Hither” stamped on them. Seriously.)

Anyways, I was really anxious to show them a good time and to avoid a dull trip for them at all costs. It ended up being a better visit than I could have ever imagined, and it was anything but dull. There was one specific incident that I feel incredibly compelled to share with you, dear readers, for I think it nicely exemplifies the zany shit-show that can sometimes be my life, and always seems to follow me wherever I go.

My dad is an incredible bargain hunter. I think that in a past life he must have been a kick-ass travel agent or something, because whenever we go on a trip, he has always carefully planned out interesting lodging and provided us with a myriad of things to do upon arriving to our target destination. Similar to past experiences, mi padre rented this really amazing and spacious two bedroom apartment for four nights that was probably a fourth of the cost of a Manhattan hotel room. The only catch was that it was in New Jersey. (More specifically, a place called West New York--isn’t it strange that there’s a city called West New York and it’s not even in the state that shares its name? I think so.)

So, it’s 10:30 p.m. on the end of their first full day in the city and I’m going back to New Jersey with them for the night. In order to get to Jersey, you have to take a subway to 42nd Street before getting on a Port Authority bus that will take you to the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel. As you get closer to Jersey, the subways begin morphing--trains are older, rustier, creakier, dirtier. We frantically realized that we needed to change lines to get to Port Authority, and so we rushed out from one subway’s doors onto another waiting subway. First my mom, then my dad, and then me. The doors began closing, and they heavily pressed upon my backpack, holding me back before I clumsily grabbed at one of the poles to propel me through. I straightened up, feeling like I somehow beat the subway in this hectic rat race of a city. I turned around to lord my insignificant victory over the inanimate subway doors, only to see Bennett on the other side of them.

If I could describe what I saw in my brother’s eyes in one word, it would most definitely be betrayal. I swear, he looked like we just killed a puppy in front of him.

Adrenaline started coursing through my veins as I tried to pry open the janky metal subway doors, which weren’t budging at all. Meanwhile, my mother became frantic and started shrieking, “BENNETT!!!! CAN YOU HEAR ME???? STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!!!!! WE’LL COME GET YOU!!!!! STAY. WHERE. YOU. ARE!!!!!” Then my dad got annoyed with my mom, saying “That’s not the plan, Trudy. We made a family plan about what to do when you’re separated in the city, and that’s not it.” 

At this point, I belatedly realized that there was nothing I could do to get my brother on the other side of those stupid subway doors and thus began to lose my shit. “GUYS, WE HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET HIM!” My calm, collected father looked between my panic-stricken mother and my spastic self, finally throwing up his hands and saying, “Fine. We’ll get off at the next stop.” I probably looked like I was a deranged lunatic, I was so concerned for my baby bro. Our subway car was unusually silent, and people were awkwardly pretending not to notice us out of a delicate sense of social politeness. 

The train lurched forward, leaving poor Bennett on the platform, clearly pissed off. Eventually, my mom and I made eye contact, and our grimaces of concern slowly broke into shy smiles which morphed into giggles as we realized the twisted hilarity of our situation. “Oh,” she said, between chuckles, “he is gonna be so maaaaad at us!”

We got back to Bennett’s station in a matter of minutes to find that he was fuming on a bench, sandwiched between a few shady and all-together odd people. “Bennett, we--” I tried, but he silenced me with a look. He really is good at that.

“I. Hate. This. City,” was all he said, between clenched teeth.

Needless to say, after that we always made sure that he was the first in our clan to get on the subway. On the bright side, I guess I got a funny story out of it. At least, I think that it’s funny that I left my fifteen year old brother alone on a platform of a subway in his least favorite city in the world. 

On an entirely separate and unrelated note, I’m still waiting on my “Best Sister Of The Year” Award. I wonder why it hasn’t come yet...