The East Village lays west of the East River.
I loved their with the hillbilly girlfriend in 1978.
Alice was a little bit country and a lot of David Bowie.
Insomnia was a family trait and my mind wandered the world before dawn
In the tenement apartment I marveled at the marble whiteness of her naked skin and how she breathed like Pygmalion struggling for life.
Alice liked sleeping in late.
I wished I could do the same.
Sometimes I slept, but rarely and most mornings listened for the Concorde’s massive engines roaring from JFK across Brooklyn to Manhattan.
During take-off the Olympus 593 turbojetRolls-Royce/Bristol Siddeley screamed fighting to lift the SST into the sky.
Destination either Heathow in London or Charles De Gaulle Aeroport outside Paris.
Top speed was more than twice the sound of speed.
Passengers paid
Occasionally Alice woke and murmured, “I wish I was heading to Paris.”
The price of a one-way ticket was $7500 or twice the yearly income of most Americans. Neither was us could afford the flight, yet every morning I embraced the power of its engines and fell asleep dreaming of the Eiffel Tower in the afternoon
She never said ‘we’.
That year for Mother’s Day Alice flew home to West Virginia.
I booked a flight to Boston on Pan-Am from JFK.
12:05 take-off.
The previous day a spring snow storm covered the highway approaches to JFK. My watch ate away the minutes, as the taxi crawled down the Grand Central Parkway. We finally arrived at 11:5O. I ran up to the desk and handed the female clerk my ticket and she said, “Our flight to Boston to pulled away from the departure gate three minutes ago.”
“I was trying to surprise my mother for Mother’s Day.”
She picked up the phone and said, “Just a second. maybe I can get you on the plane. It’s a long shot, but I’m Irish like you and we believe in long shots and a mother’s love.”
She whispered into phone and smiled, “We’re going to drive you out to the plane. It’s a prop and has easy access to the cabin. Go and go fast.”
A security guard approached the gate and she order him to get me on the plane. “Peace.”
We ran to the gate. A Pan-Am van was waiting for us. I could see my flight, but also the Air France Concorde. It was waiting for tomorrow morning, but I wasn’t interested in the Eiffel Tower or the Bourbon palace Versailles and boarded the Fairchild F-27. I sat. I buckled up. We taxied by the SST and within minutes were airborne bound for my old hometown. After the pilot announced the flight lasted forty-five minutes the stewardess offered me a beer.
“Could I have two?”
Of course. Anything for the loving son.”
“Two Heinekens.”
We floated over Long Island and I thought they could have never pulled this trick on the Concorde, then again I wasn’t going to Paris. Alice could have Charleston, West Virginia. I was a New Englander and a son visiting his family and Charleston was a city where only one there knew my name.