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VACATION FROM HELL 1/29/2011 6:57:09 AM
I was distressed to learn that Keith Olberman is leaving MNBC, not so much that I was a fan of his (I would be equally discombobulated if I heard that Rush Limbaugh was going off radio — we’ve not had such fine comedy shows since Amos and Andy.) But Olberman was different in his overpowering liberalism, although I never appreciated his amateurish impersonation of Ed Murrow: the “Goodnight and good luck” signoff was a bit much.
And then, on top of that, my idol Jack LaLanne up and died, and Regis Philbin got pissed off because they cut his salary from $25,000 a day to $24,900. Hell, if I’d quit every time management screwed me, I’d have been out of broadcasting the first week!
Anyway, by the late 1950’s I had progressed sufficiently toward local stardom as a radio and TV personality to afford a lengthy vacation in Florida, especially after a particularly grueling winter in Western New York. My father and mother had divorced and remarried; dad had a new wife and three kids in West Palm Beach. And a favorite retired aunt and uncle were managing a motel in Coral Gables — freeloading destinations (and impositions) abounded.
I wrote to Dad and he was ecstatic that we planned to visit — he even arranged for a weekend for us all at his new brother-in-law’s exquisite hotel/resort near Cape Canaveral before taking us in at West Palm. A week later, Aunt Gladys and Uncle Leroy would be waiting for us with open arms at their commercial tourist paradise in South Florida. Life was good.
The motor trip in my new Nash Rambler began at 5 AM, and we got as far as Binghamton before daughter Barbara, age four, threw up all over the back seat. Son Bobby, then six and not to be outdone, tossed his cookies a few minutes later.
By the time we arrived in Cape Canaveral, both kids had upchucked five malodorous times. So much for new car smell.
Unbeknown to us, the children were coming down with the measles, and of course, they infected my half brother and two half sisters before we had unpacked. When we finally departed for Coral Gables, the crises had passed for my brood, but the other youngsters were just beginning to experience miscellaneous symptoms — including, but not limited to, skin eruptions.
Anyway, after another week of freeloading on my aunt and uncle, we headed for home. Somewhere in the Carolinas, Bobby and Barbara suffered a relapse with fevers well over a hundred; this sent me scurrying to the motel registration desk in search of medical help.
“We got us a doctor on call for all our sick guests,” the sixteen year old clerk told me, and within an hour a gentleman appeared at door No. 7, black satchel in hand, and administered medicines and words of comfort. He was young and solicitous, a recent graduate of Vanderbilt and interning at nearby St. Agnes Hospital; whatever he prescribed worked wonders: the kids woke up the next day as if nothing had occurred (his bill — $20 — was added to our motel tab of $19.95. Remember, this was in the late ‘50s.)
Later that day, as we approached Falls Church, VA, I myself began to feel “out of sorts.” A blanket of heat and déjà vu came over me, and I could not concentrate on driving. I thought I might faint at any moment. My wife said perhaps we should find a place for the night. Good thinking.
I saw a road sign as we entered the town, which said: “Medical Emergencies. Turn Left on Ames St. Winthrop Clinic. No Appointment Necessary.”
A few minutes later, I was seen by a Dr. Koppeldorf (of whom, besides his name — no, he was NOT Doris Day’s father — I have no recollection.) I was given a shot, put to bed and rendered unconscious. I think I slept the better part of three hours, and when I awoke I was sent on my way feeling 100% better (and $25 poorer.) While I was slumbering in the clinic’s darkened cubicle, my wife and kids checked into a nearby Holiday Inn.
Amazing what a good night’s rest will do! The next morning I devoured a hearty breakfast at the Huddle House before driving all the way back to Rochester without further incident. Well, almost.
Going through New York City enroute to the NY Thruway, we passed Yankee Stadium; the sign out front said that a day game against the Minnesota Twins was scheduled to start at 1 PM.
What the hey, Bobby would begin Little League in a couple of years, and this was an opportunity not to be ignored! For 50¢ we parked in the adjacent lot, locked our luggage and kids’ toys in the trunk, along with my new Polaroid camera and my wife’s mink stole. I extracted some cash, wisely hid my genuine leather Prince Gardner wallet under the floor mat, and took my family to our first major league baseball game.
For $36 total (including a program, four hot dogs and soft drinks) we were seated three rows above the Yankee’s dugout to watch Yogi Bera, Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris up close and personal, as they destroyed the hapless Twins. After the game, the kids were waving crisp new pennants and belching hot dogs, peanuts, and soda pop, as we leisurely returned to the stadium parking lot. Deliriously content, I didn’t even notice the broken vent window until I was unlocking the car.
Not only was the glass shattered, but the bad guys had ransacked the car; the trunk was popped and everything — even the spare tire — was gone. My wallet was still beneath the floor mat, but emptied of nearly three hundred dollars, my American Express card, driver’s license, Social Security card, press credentials, and plethora of family photos. All I had left were my keys and $5.82 in my pants pocket.
Detective 2nd Grade Chuck Pelegrosi of New York’s Finest was a lifesaver. He sympathetically took down all pertinent information and did what he could to comfort my wife and kids — “I got two at home myself, an’ I know what it’s like, married to a Irish dame.” He called Amex to cancel my credit card and advanced me two sawbucks to cover dinner and transit on the NY Thruway. “Send it back to me soon’s you get home.”
When we finally arrived at the Henrietta exit about midnight, my hands were frozen to the steering wheel from incessant wind blowing through the broken vent window. For some reason this reminded my wife there was no milk in the Frig for breakfast. “We got eggs and bread, but we need milk.”
I paid the Thruway attendant the required toll. With $1.37 remaining from Detective Pelegrosi’s twenty and my own kitty, I stopped at a nearby 7-Eleven to buy a quart of milk. “Hey, Millsy!” the clerk, recognizing me, greeted. “Missed ya on TV! You been on vacation or sumpin?”
I was about to answer when someone elbowed me aside. I had not noticed the two guys who’d come in behind me wearing ski masks and brandishing a pistol and sawed-off shotgun.
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A Reminder: Mr. Mills’ second novel—AURA LEE—a Civil War story, is now available for ordering at www.authorsden.com/robertmills. It can be ordered on line and delivered promptly to your door.
