Fool for the City, Pt. 2

My eyes open. A glance at the clock reveals it’s about 10:30 in the morning. Bob is already bustling around the room. He asks if I want a coffee and bagel from around the block. I hoarsely decline. With that he bounds out the door in disgustingly good humor. How he managed to avoid a hangover is beyond me. Of course evenings on the city like we had the night before are old hat to him. I’m still batting in the minors when it comes to living it up Gotham-style.

I gingerly peel myself from the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed waiting. Oddly enough the pounding headache never comes. Maybe it’s just waiting for me to stand up to pounce. Through the gap in the drapes I can see into the offices of the building across 32nd. Young Korean men and women are busily being busy at some kind of business. Then it dawns on me that if I can see them, they can no doubt see the unshaven, disheveled figure wearing nothing but boxers in the hotel across from them. I imagine I look like a relatively hairless sasquatch. None of them appear to take notice. If they have, I imagine they’re busily e-mailing each other, “Don’t stare, but there’s a hungover white guy in the window across the street. Park, do you still have that web cam pointed at the hotel?”

I slowly stand up and close the drapes. The headache never comes. Instead I feel like I’ve been shot by a tranq gun, like I’m walking through the bottom of a swimming pool. The 10 step journey to the bathroom is a forced march. I shave and get in the shower. I just stand there letting the hot water run over me. Slowly I can feel my joints loosen and my head start to clear. For 20 minutes I let the water and steam continue this healing work then I reluctantly get out and get dressed. Bob bounds back into the room, bagel and coffee in hand. I both loathe and envy his vigor.

“So, what do you want to do today?”, he asks. I suggest brunch at the White Horse, maybe a trip to the Strand and dinner at Chumbley’s. Other than that I didn’t have any major agenda items. “Well then let’s hit it,” he commands. And with that we hit the streets.

As we head towards 5th Ave. Bob asks if I need batteries for the camera. I do. I could use a Gatorade too. We round the corner and duck into a CVS. There is one on just about every corner in Manhattan. They probably own more NYC real estate than Trump. I get some super duper Lithium batteries and a Vitamin Water. The clever copy writing on the water’s label is what sells me. Go figure. I need to send an e-mail to Glaceau corporate and tell them, “Great copy!!!”. I still harbor fantasies that someday a similar dealer feedback will appear about E-flite or ParkZone. Did I mention I still believe in Santa Claus, too?

As we trek up 5th Bob is in full insane-New-Yorker-stride. Still suffering from a few lingering hangover effects I try to keep up but eventually give up and fall back to sip my beverage at a more leisurely pace. Bob stops occasionally to let me catch up a little then takes off again. I’m fatigued just watching him. As we near the main entrance to the Empire State Building, he stops and turns around with this kind of serious look on his face.

“You know I love you cous’, right?” Yeah, I know. “More than my brothers.” Yeah, I guess I knew that. “And since you and I share a lot of the same values, I knew the stripper-thing wouldn’t work for you. I really didn’t want that for my bachelor party either.” As slow as I am, I begin to realize this is a build up to something. And with Bob, something could literally be anything. I agree, the strippers wouldn’t have been a good idea for a number of reasons. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “That said, I still feel it's my duty as your cousin as well as the man in charge of your bachelor party festivities this weekend to make sure that you have as close to an orgasmic experience as possible while you’re here.” Rrrrriiight. I have no idea where this is headed, but my extensive history with Bob suggests something really out-of-the-ordinary is about to occur. “I’m going to introduce you to a woman that will change your life.” By now I’m speechless and Bob is grinning deviously. I feel like I’ve wandered into a trap.

Suddenly Bob halts and says, Larry meet Arianna. I am so focused on what Bob is saying I don’t even notice the person standing in front of us. Arianna is about 5’ 2” with brown hair, brown eyes and a welcoming smile. But it is what she is wearing that really gets my attention. It’s a yellow overcoat that says “Liberty Helicopter Tours, New York.” I look at Bob, “Are you serious?” Sure enough, my predictably unpredictable cousin is taking me on a helicopter tour of Manhattan. He laughs, “I figured buying you a lap dance would cost about as much and I knew you’d enjoy this a whole lot more.” Go Bob.

Arianna gets on her Nextel and pages our ride. About 10 minutes later a non-descript blue van appears to pick us up. It looks a little FBI and some of the people on the sidewalk stop to see who is getting in. Our driver is a 70-something year old Puerto Rican guy. He asks if this is my first time in New York. I explain I’ve been before and this is kind of a bachelor party of sorts. He admonishes us, “Whateva’ you do stay out of the subways. It’s not safe down there. Take a cab. It’s more expensive but at least you up here and not down there.” Having ridden the subways a lot, I wonder if my man has ridden them since 1980. That was the era of Bernie Goetz and movies like Escape from New York, The Warriors and Taxi Driver. They probably were dangerous then. But they aren’t now, unless you count panhandlers peddling $1 bootleg DVDs a menace.

The driver deposits us at the corner of 30th street and West Side Hwy. In front of us is the Hudson River and a heliport. We cross the highway and head for Liberty Helicopter’s terminal. As we cross the highway, one of Liberty’s EC120’s returns from a tour. It looks and sounds awesome. I can’t help but think of Blue Thunder. Inside the terminal we go through many of the same security procedures you would at an airport, including a few you don’t. For instance we have to leave our cell phones in a locker. We are also issued an inflatable life vest that goes around your waist like a fanny pack. In the unlikely event of a landing in the Hudson River, I will pull the top of the vest from the pouch, put it around my neck and inflate it. Drowning in the Hudson isn’t what worries me, though. Swallowing some of it does. I shudder at the thought of what a mouthful might taste like.

As I walk through the metal detector, the screener holds his palm up in anticipation of a high five, like Ive just completed astronaut training or something. I give him some skin and get in line with the rest of the passengers. The terminal waiting area is a metal building with an unusually low ceiling. Unusual that is until I see one of the helicopters land right outside the door. The low roof is clearly essential for rotor blade clearance should one of the helis stray to close on landing.

A crew member waits at the door and signals the six of us when it is time to head for the heli. As I step out onto the helipad the heli is still running, which is just a little intimidating. Visions of Vic Morrow pop into my head. The ground crew leads us to a painted line and signals for us to wait here while they unload the previous tour group. They have to signal because the whine of the turbine and sound of the rotors is deafening. Bob motions to one of our fellow tour group members to snap our pic in front of the heli. Little do we know a ground crew member will do the same thing right before we get on. We can buy a print after the flight if we want. I’m sure a free copy was sent to the FBI as well.

By now my senses are all at full alert. Between the smell of the jet fuel, the sound of the turbine and rotor blades, and the prospect of my first ever heli ride I am completely and totally amped. One of the ground crew points to the first two people in line and motions them forward. He guides them to a spot just in front of the heli. Another crew member takes their picture. This ritual is repeated until they finally get to Bob and I. My stomach is turning somersaults as the ground crew points at us and motions us toward the heli. The feeling is not unlike the one I had the first time my sophomore football coach motioned for me during a game. My instinct is to duck as we walk under the rotor blades, but there is still a good 6 feet or so between the top of my cranium and instant decapitation. Bob and I pose and smile. Our pic is taken and with expert efficiency we are loaded up and belted in.

Before closing us in they hand Bob and I headsets to wear, both to reduce the noise and allow us to hear the pilot. The pilot does a few last second systems checks and gives the ground crew a thumbs up. I turn on my video camera to record the takeoff. There is a slight increase in turbine RPM , the sound of the rotors taking a big bite of air and we leap off the helipad. As we clear the terminal roof, the pilot swings the nose around toward the Hudson and we depart the heli pad skimming low over the water.

As the helicopter gains forward airspeed the pilot starts a gentle climbing turn south down the Hudson. I’m sitting in a back seat right behind the pilot. The large fishbowl Plexiglas window allows me to look straight down at the brownish-green waters 1,400 feet below. I glance up through the bubble canopy at the blades whirring overhead. It’s right about now that it occurs to me the only thing keeping us aloft is thousands of moving parts, many of which were probably purchased from the lowest bidder, continuing to work together flawlessly. I glance over at Bob who has his camera in my face and records the somewhat pensive look this thought produces.

Off to my left the island of Manhattan slides by like a gigantic cruise ship. The view is simply incredible. As we fly along down the river (post 9/11 there are no more tours over the island) the pilot points out Ground Zero and Battery Park. As I look ahead out the front of the canopy I notice everything is vibrating. The canopy, the instrument panel, my fellow passengers—it’s all vibrating. “C’mon thousands of parts, don’t fail us now.” This anxiety is forgotten, however, when I see the Statue of Liberty getting larger in the front windscreen. Our pilot swings around the front the statue then reverses course and swings around the front again headed the other way so the folks on my side of the heli could get a clear shot of Lady Liberty and Ellis Island. All I can think is, “What a country. What an amazing country.”

As we cruise back up the Hudson it’s my turn to stare at New Jersey. This is actually cooler than it sounds because Bob used to live in Hoboken and we are busily searching out landmarks from previous adventures. We pass over the ferry terminal we used to take into the city and spot the block where he used to live. The pilot takes us as far as the top of Central Park then heads back for the heli pad. Once again I’ve got Manhattan on my side. As we approach the helipad it looks like a postage stamp. I fire up the video camera to record the landing . . . or provide exciting footage for the 6 o’clock news. I’m hoping for the former.

We touch down and seconds later the ground crew has the doors open and is unbuckling us from our seats. I spot the next six tourists anxiously waiting behind the painted line. I remove my inflatable fanny pack and hand it over, casting one last look over my shoulder at our ride. As it sits idling with heat shimmer coming from the turbine exhaust it looks awesome but I think I'll stick with the fixed wing crowd. If they ever make a helicopter that sprouts wings when the engine quits, instead of plummeting like a runaway elevator, I might give it a go.

Inside, the same screener that enthusiastically congratulated me for making it through the metal detector successfully is waiting to give me another high-five. Like every other first flight in my life the thrill of this one doesn’t fully hit me until I’m on the ground. When you’re in the middle of it, you’re mind is too engaged to fully step back and take it all in. You can’t wipe the grin off my face. Lap dance, shmapdance. Does my cousin know me or what? I go ahead and purchase the print even though we took a picture ourselves. I also pick up a couple of copies of the “Liberty Helicopters: An Aerial View of New York City” DVD.

As we walk back into the city I call Laurie and relate what just happened with all the restraint of a breathless 7-year old who has just seen his first shooting star. I can hear her giggling as I gush. She’s just as thrilled by my enthusiasm as I was by the flight. It’s so cool to be in love with a girl that gets you. While I’m talking to Laurie, Bob calls Vlad and tells him to meet us by the Shubert. We’re going to see if we can get tickets to Spamalot in the cancellation line.

One adventure down, who knows how many more to go.

To be continued . . .