Before Battle

The evening of July 5th, we arrive in New York state. Our aim is to stay at a hotel in Westchester County, about 30 miles north of NYC, and use it as a staging ground of sorts for our impending assault on Park Slope. Also, everyone's closed that day as it's used as the official Independence Day observation, so we can't move in anyway. No matter, because it takes us FOREVER JUST TO FIND THE DAMN HOTEL. Google Maps, upon which I've relied exclusively to get me from one place to the other during this trip and which has performed its duties in a superlative manner, decides at the 11th hour not to tell me whether to go north or south on the Saw Mill River Parkway. This is fairly significant, because one direction (north) boasts a sign saying “passenger cars only” (even in my road-based delirium I know that the velociraptor doesn't qualify) and the other (south) heads off towards an incredibly intimidating series of on- and off-ramps and must, by default, lead to the city itself. No matter—Google Maps is like the buddy you had in high school that would smack-talk a bunch of dudes much bigger than himself and then stand by, feigning absolute innocence, as said dudes kicked YOUR ass instead. Or, better yet, just run like hell. My trusty directions are useless, and I have to make a choice. Being the law-abiding citizen that I am (in most instances...really) I cannot take a road which specifically prohibits my vehicle—never mind that the prohibition may be due to low overhangs that would rip the truck in two. Nope. So I head south.

Several miles later, we have passed through two more tollbooths and are utterly lost. We pull over, at wit's end. We are not only lost and miles from our destination, but completely out of cash. Assuming we have to return on the expressways that got us into this mess in order to find the hotel, we will have to go BACK through the tollbooths—but have no resources to do so. J, in fact, is now negotiating with Harper in the back seat to borrow some or all of the money she's got in her pink kitty purse. Harper, shrewd as always, at first refuses. J becomes firmer in her resolve, and, following some heated discussions about the terms of the loan, secures 20 bucks and we turn around. She calls the hotel and gets directions from our location and we're back on the road. She leads, paying tolls for me as we go and, for the first time on the whole trip, being the chase car.

Yeah. About that.

Physics: Mercury Milans are more maneuverable than dinosaur trucks. They turn more adeptly, they accelerate much faster, and they change lanes quite smoothly. 26-foot behemoths? Not so much. This is important if one wants to understand the cat-and-mouse game we play over the next half an hour or so. J assumes (rightly, to be fair) a rather aggressive driving style on the expressways. She cuts in and out of lanes, zooms ahead to get to the correct exit, and does everything else a reasonable person would do in order to reach the hotel. I, on the other hand, have only a foggy memory of the directions she wrote down...something about 9A north...maybe....or is it 2A?...and NO CHANCE WHATSOEVER of keeping up with her. She pulls ahead, loses me at a stoplight, and I am on my own. The whole time, of course, we are in constant phone contact—that is, when our calls are not being dropped, which is EVERY FUCKING TIME. So, to set the scene: J is nowhere to be found. I am far behind with no directions to guide me. I am calling her every thirty seconds to scream at her, to no avail. The calm, measured approach I have taken to this entire trip—of which I have been quite proud, thank you very much, considering my tendency to blow my top—has been thrown out the window entirely. I am a screaming, flailing madman hurtling down the NY Expressway at 80 miles an hour in a 15-ton missile.

Then, I see it. The sign for 9A north. I cut across four lanes of traffic (if anyone was killed, it isn't on the news later that night) and give it a shot. I call J, hoping she's seen the same exit. She has, but ignored it in favor of the specific directions given to her by the hotel. I scream at her again:

R: AREN'T WE SUPPOSED TO END UP ON 9A NORTH??????
J: Yes, but...

R: WELL, I'M ON IT, GODDAMIT. I'M ON 9A NORTH!! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

J: I am heading towards exit 15, LIKE SHE SAID.

R: WELL, WHAT'S THE POINT OF THAT?!? IF WE'RE SUPPOSED TO END UP ON 9A NORTH, WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU JUST TAKE THE EXIT FOR 9A NORTH?

J: Because, honey...I'M FOLLOWING THE ACTUAL DIRECTIONS SHE GAVE ME.

R: OH, GODDAMIT. GODDAMIT! FUCK IT. I'M TAKING 9A NORTH AND I'LL JUST MEET YOU AT THE HOTEL. GODDAMIT.

J: Goddammit. (hangs up)

And so I begin a mini-journey up 9A. 9A, of course, is less a highway—or even a route—than it is a road. Or a street. I follow it through town (Which one? Who the HELL knows? There aren't any signs for things like THAT which would be HELPFUL.) for about 4 or 5 miles when I start to become concerned. The hotel is nowhere to be found, I've lost my family, it's getting dark, I have no directions, and my cell service is virtually nonexistent (can you hear me NOW, you Verizon bastards?).

And then, mercifully, I see it. The Comfort Suites of Hawthorne, NY. Perched atop a little hill, cradling an Applebee's in its parking lot. At last. I pull in, find a parking spot (never an easy task in the velociraptor) and wait. I breathe...deeply...and call J. She's only a couple of blocks away and arrives almost instantly. We are here. In New York. In one piece. Tomorrow we invade the Borough of Brooklyn. Tonight we dine on comforting, chain-restaurant fare. We don't sleep well, even with the Xanax. Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, we find out what we're made of. Tomorrow, the family and friends who've been pulling for us pull for us even harder.

And as I realize all of this, even through the anxiety/apprehension/terror/second thoughts/remorse/insecurity, my resolve stiffens. I'm charged with shepherding this family—this beautiful woman, who believes in my dreams, and these beautiful children, who believe in everything I say, simply because Daddy said it—and I will not fail. I will not disappoint them. I will make all of them proud, and in so doing I will be even more proud of them. This is what some haven't understood. When people very close to us have expressed doubts about our plan, about our ability to pull it off, about our INability to put into words exactly why we're leaving Happy Valley or what we plan to do in NYC, what they've overlooked is that they should never bet against us. Six months, y'say? You're betting we'll only make it six months? Just watch us.

Oh, by the way...you'll still be allowed to visit seven months from now.