YESTERDAY MORNING

(Part 3 of A Bemoan, written on December 23)

(We resume our saga as it dawns on our protagonist that he caught the wrong train. As before, he is still fiercely gripping the waistline of his trousers in order not to be featured on the 5 o’clock news).

Although I was on the wrong train, it was not such a huge problem. I could simply get out at the next station and wait for the proper one to come along.

We arrived at the next station fairly quickly and I disembarked. The correct train wouldn’t be along for another few minutes, but, although I may have missed the noon deadline, there was still time for me to make the noon-thirty one.

I started to relax a little, thinking, once again, that things were beginning to fall into place, finally. We reached the 57th Street station and I headed toward the exit. There were signs posted overhead pointing to the Northeast corner and the Southeast corner and, as I looked at them, I realized I had, somehow, gotten a bit confused which direction to go. I chose one set of stairs, then, reaching the street, pulled out my phone to check which direction to walk.

I still had several minutes left before the noon-thirty deadline, and I was thrilled to see the little dotted blue line of the GPS labeled with “2 minutes.” Of course, it would take a wee bit longer for me, because of my limp and all, but I WOULD MAKE IT, and, with a renewed sense of energy, in spite of a growing hunger and thirst — I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since waking up — I started walking as briskly as I could manage.

In the wrong direction.

I went a full three-minute block plus another half of one, but the scenery didn’t look familiar. I should have been in sight of the church just about forty yards ahead, but it wasn’t there. I pulled my phone out and checked, again. There was that same dotted blue line. Only, this time I noticed the arrow pointing the opposite way.

I confess, I felt totally deflated. Although the GPS cheerily continued to notify me that it was a two-minute walk, I was convinced it had become an evil, mocking instrument of hell. I was definitely NOT going to make the noon-thirty deadline, but my concern, now, was if I’d make it at all. The fact that I’d not eaten or drunk anything all day was beginning to take its toll. Not eating didn’t particularly bother me, since I am well set with “reserves,” but, the weather was so mild, all my racing around (if you could call it racing) holding up my pants had rendered me extremely parched and a bit faint.

That was about the time I began my Lament. Or, would have begun it, if I’d had any energy. Instead, I started telling myself, “keep walking…just take another step…just keep walking.” Every once in a while, I sighed, “Lord!” It seemed to be all the prayer I could muster; a sort of half exclamation, half plea. Before long, lo and behold, I covered the last few feet to the church. I arrived at 12:45, well after the 12:30 goal, but, at least before the 1:00 vocal warm-up time.

I pressed on to my place in the front row and sat down with a mixture of a groan and a sigh. I’d made it.

Whew!

My shoe was untied.

Oh, that was easily remedied! I leaned forward to make the adjustment and, as I was doing so, something splashed on my brand new shirt sleeve. Oh, no! I am NOT going to start sweating, not now! Ever since I entered adolescence, I’ve been blighted by overactive sweat glands ‘round my brow. What’s worse is that they often wait until I’ve stopped all activity before they kick in with such a vengeance, it makes me look like a lawn sprinkler. It was distressing enough when I was well within my weight limit, but it is particularly so when one suffers largidity, which is a word I just made up.

Before I could react, another drop fell, and I was aware that it was not sweat.

You gotta be kiddin’ me!

My nose had started bleeding again.

David, seated next to me, saw my predicament, and immediately gave me a tissue. He led me to the restroom, (with me walking with one hand shoved tightly under my nose and the other pushed securely against my waist to…, well, you know why,…and my elbows sticking out on each side like wings) and stood by, handing me a new paper towel when I needed it — since I couldn’t let go of my pants to reach for one — and making sure any blood spatter was rinsed away. Although the nosebleed was not as severe as it had been earlier, my impatience to stifle it interfered with my allowing the necessary time for the flow to slow to a stop; I kept releasing the pressure on my nose too soon.

As if my own impatience were not enough, a woman started knocking at the door to ask how much longer we would be. David opened the door to explain to her about my dilemma and to direct her to another restroom. She did not want to go to the other one and seemed rather affronted at the suggestion: she wanted THIS one, so could I hurry?

How long, O Lord?

Well, I finally stemmed the tide, got my beard and mustache clean, again, while David took care of any other mess I’d made, and we headed back to our seats just in time for vocal warm-ups and a short pep talk from Mr. G. After our choir director decided we were sufficiently “in voice,” it was time for us to line up and head over to Carnegie Hall for our full rehearsal — complete with the entire Getty team and special guests.

This was it!

I hiked my trousers as high as I could and got a solid grip on that waistband as we headed out.

(to be continued…)