The Party's Over

Judy Holiday, the brilliant physical comedienne who died much too young, sang "The Party's Over" in the romantic farce, The Bells are Ringing. It was a sentimental story of a switchboard operator in a Brooklyn Answering Service who saves and is saved by Dean Martin's character, a writer who has hit the skids and couldn't finish a screen play until his muse shows up. I like movies like that ... happy endings ... good music ... and an optimistic view of life.

As I was driving away from vacation back toward my office a few days back, I found myself singing that song. It's not as if I have spent the past 45 years Working Nine to Five for bosses who have looked over my shoulder at every opportunity.  And while for many of those years, a 40 hour workweek may have seemed to be, as they say, a breeze, in spite of having put in very lengthy weeks, I feel blessed to have been able to do the work I did ... Opportunities to run schools, to teach in universities and post-professional institutes, to talk to many audiences before this silly blog about getting old, and to welcome people into my clinical office to work together with them on figuring out how they've made sense out of standing erect on the surface of this Good Earth. Geez. Pretty cool to have been thus blessed.

Still, driving away from the land of vacation, the little backwater town on the Eastern Shore of Virginia where we have vacationed for 36 years ... driving away and for at least a bit leaving M, one of my kids, one of his, and two other grandkids behind comes with a degree of wistfulness. "The Party's Over" ... at least for the time being ... and I was singing. To drive about, those left behind were  in need of a wagon and my son twisted my arm into driving his monster Porsche home. I had previously criticized the beast (the car, not my nearly 50 year old son) for its clutch and shift-linkage ... but, indeed, it was a blast ... in spite of its defects. I am somewhat embarrassed about my apparent need to teach a lesson to some Third Quarter type driving a Suped-up Pony Car. 

In any case, the car got me home and no Trooper hailed me over to discuss the present state of US Highways Infrastructure or anything else. Indeed, I find that the police seem to avoid stopping me for speeding much, anymore. Perhaps, they have pity on old men driving cars that are clearly meant for quick-reflexed younger folk. And when they do stop me, they don't seem to give me tickets.

Smokey: Take it easy, Old Fella

In fact, while I've been stopped dozens of times since entering the Last Quarter, I haven't been penalized. I attribute this to something other than being Handsome, Brave and Intelleckatektual. As soon as I see the police car -- preferably even before it lights up -- I pull over. Like a dog, I suppose, lying on his back, taking the submissive position. When the policeman asks:

Smokey: Do y'know how fast you were going, Sir.

In spite of my chagrin at having been called Sir, and my inclination to call him on using that expression with a "Sir, my ass," I respond carefully adding 2 mph to whatever was actually my speed:

H: Well. I didn't know how fast I was going until I saw you. 

I had been thinking about &^$@#%&* and

then I saw your car and I looked at my speedometer and it read &%$ mph ...

Geez! That is fast.

Smokey: That is kinda fast, Sir.

H: Yeah, it is.

My intention is not to cause any friction in Smokey's life and to leave an impression that in words might sound like: "I'm guilty as charged and actually more guilty than you might've thought, Mr. Smokey, and whatever you say is right." 

I remember several situations, in particular. On one such stop, my older son, the Guy with the Monster Porsche, was trying to encourage the policeman to ticket me for speeding and another time when my Father (we had just buried his brother) similarly encouraged a Trooper to fine me for going through a Red Light. Apparently, it pisses off people that I don't get tickets and they do. But my favorite interaction was in Summer of 1994. I was attending a seminar and bunking down at a Monastery inland from St. Augustine, FL. I had three people in the car with me and was traveling some 70 mph in a 35 zone. We were on our way to see the sunrise at a beach. When pulled over, I gave-up 73 mph with something like:

H: Really felt a need to see the sunrise. 

Living at this Monastery and listening to people rattle on about Ethics for day after day, 

we really wanted to see that there still was a Sun in the Sky.

After the requisite several minutes in his car ... I imagine, ascertaining that I'm not an escaped felon ... he reappeared:

Smokey: Follow me, Sir. I'll escort you to the beach. 

But you be a good ole boy from here on out.

H: Yes, Sir!

All this was flashing through my mind driving this 7 speed - 500 hp monster up Route 113 through Maryland and Delaware and thinking how easy life is in the Modern Western World if you just obey a couple of simple rules, live within what are very broad boundaries and don't cause others too much heartache.

And, still, I was coming home to an empty house ... just me, the Dog and the Cat. Alas. I shall vacation, again.

Ride, Captain, ride!