Daddy's Heroism in NYC, Part 2

I just got back from Pleasant Hill, where Kathy hosted our monthly Supporting KAST--Kathy, Suzy and I (Tina).  That was after I helped Javier get his BMW out of the garage onto 19th Avenue (where he thinks it's more at risk than my Civic Honda) at noon on a day we began with our usual morning ritual plus a reading-aloud of an article by Fariba Nawa, "Fremont savors new cultures."  (That should be a separate blog, especially if it includes Javier's responses!)    But I will make note here and now of the vegetarian restaurant Sarvana Bhavan.

Now, back to Daddy, whom I was praising a couple of days ago for rising to the occasion (which some might call an emergency) when I arrived alone and unexpected in NYC while he was at a conference for the American Psychological Association.  That was in or around 1953.

Today's account is of summer 1969, when Suzy and I were on a trip to the east coast--Georgia, South Carolina, and Pennsylvania--before I left for Peace Corps Training for Tonga in Hawaii.  Missy, several months pregnant, was then living with Daddy in a townhouse in Harrisburg.  Daddy offered to take us to New York City and whatever Broadway shows we wanted to see, so I suggested Man of La Mancha and Cabaret.  I really can't remember which one we were going to on the night I accidentally tested the kindness and patience of both the theatre manager and Daddy, but let's say it was for The Man of La Mancha because that was the better production if not the better  show.  (Maybe the better show too, though)

I was awe-struck that Daddy, who didn't believe in spending money, would take us to see any shows at all, but two?   It seemed too wonderful to believe.  Had dating again after his divorce from Mom changed him so much?  Had he taken anyone in the family to see a show since he'd taken Mom to see Oklahoma in 1945?  (The answer is probably yes, but not on Broadway.)  He gave me the tickets to keep for the nights we were going, and on our way to the theatre, I held The Man of La Mancha tickets in my hands and marveled at their beauty.  I read the words and numbers printed on them and memorized it all like poetry.  Then Daddy said he would drop us off at the theatre and go and park.  (That was pretty heroic too for a father who when we were children expected us to wipe the car windows on  frosty or rainy morning and then push the car to get it started, as we so often had to do.) 

Now comes the scary part:  When it was time to get out of the car, I neatly laid the tickets down at the carpeted floor where my feet had been and got out--an act I was totally unconscious of doing until we got to the theatre, and I noticed that the tickets were not in my hand. 

"Do I--Could I possibly be remembering this right?" I asked my sisters.  "Did I lay them down on the floor of the car?"

I don't remember what they said.  That wasn't the important part.

I asked to see the manager and explained what I had done, and he asked me whether I knew the seat numbers.  Because I'd memorized the tickets like poetry, I did.

"You can take those seats.  But if anyone comes in with the tickets, we'll have to give the seats to them."

Ah, New Yorkers!  The kindest, sweetest people on the face of the earth.

I thanked him and said that the only possible person who might have them would be our father.

When Daddy arrived, I asked, "Did you by any chance notice our tickets on the floor of the car?"

He said, with amazing calm, "No."  I told him what I had done and how stupid I felt about it, and he didn't scream or holler or take God's name in vain.  He may even have said, empathically, "Well, sweetheart..." without following it with any threats.  Of course I quickly followed my confession by explaining that the manager was going to let us go to the seats he'd bought for us even though we didn't have the tickets.

Once seated  we saw an absolutely wonderful production of Man of La Mancha, which I'll always remember because it was so wonderful, and so was Daddy, who was transformed into a knight in shining armor more real than don Quixote.
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