If I were to tell you a couple stories from my growing-up years, it could be boring. But what if I told you a couple stories from my growing-up years that had serious mafia undertones I'm only just now recognizing? Well, that would be exciting, wouldn't it?
Yesterday I listed some personal life incidents, one of which was: "Broke a bone - toes and leg-- one resulted in a plane ride, one in a '66 Mustang." And I said I needed blog topics, and Katie wanted to hear about this one.
First, let me tell the stories, briefly. Then, in a whisper, I will reveal the mafia undertones.
In my senior year of high school, my boyfriend was a goofball. His best friend was an even bigger goofball. But they were both VERY cute, so my best friend and I put up with them. One wintry December day, we loaded into boyfriend's sexy black Trans Am and drove up to Mt. Charleston for some happy, wholesome sledding. Things turned painful when boyfriend's best friend careened down the hill into my foot. My leg bone did not withstand the impact and I had to be carried back to the Trans Am. Thankfully, the six weeks of a cast and crutches would be over before graduation. Also thankfully, my friend in computer class felt enormously sympathetic toward me so for the entire six weeks of my handicap, she picked me up and drove me to school in her lemon-chiffon convertible Mustang.
Mafia undertone: this friend had an Italian last name. This is nearly all the proof of mob ties you need living in Las Vegas, but as I recalled today, there were also many many conversations in the car on the way to school, with our two other passengers, about how my driver's father always had tons of cash on hand, kept strange and secret work hours, and showered with his gun.
The broken toes are less serious from an orthopedic standpoint, but the implications for my own family are serious and sinister.
One happy, carefree day, my brother and I decided it would be fun to play baseball in the house. In our defense, we had a large, carpeted, non-furnished playroom above the garage. I have no recollection why we didn't take this idea into the backyard, front yard, street, or neighboring school grounds - but let's just chalk it up to a spontaneous burst of sports fun. (Incidentally, spontaneous bursts of sports fun in my house today on the part of my offspring result in swift relocation out of doors - so one could ask, "Where were my parents?" This would be a good question.) Anyhoo, in one action-packed inning, I was sliding into home. That's it. That's what I was doing. But home plate was right up against the wall and when I slid, my toes careened into the wall. (Notice in both of these stories that "careening" precedes breakage of bones. I have since learned to try to avoid careens.)
Much of the rest of that day is muddled in my memory. It might be that the pain clouded my clear thinking. Or it might be that this happened over twenty years ago. But what I do remember is that my brother and I were due to visit my father (my divorced parents lived in different states at that time) and there were timing issues with the visit, especially pertaining to my appointment with a toe doc, so my father picked us up in a private jet at a small-town airport.
Mafia undertone: How long, exactly, did my father think I'd buy the "I'm-an-innocent-plane-mechanic-who-makes-great-friends-with-the-pilots-and-therefore-cavorts-all-over-the-country-in-a-King-Air-with-politicians-and-celebrities-and-casino-owners" story? Well, I don't know how long he thought I'd buy it, but since I broke my toes at age 13 and am now 41, I guess the answer is 28 years! My naivete is no longer! I'm on to you, Dad! You must have been a hit man, because the bosses are usually fatter and smoke a lot. So kudos to you for being able to commit cold-blooded murder and then swoop out of the sky to pick up your pre-teen with her broken toes and get her to the doctor for a clunky shoe.
There you have it. Things are not always as they seem. Sometimes you think you have a simple childhood story, but if you take a closer look, POW!... drama fit for the big screen. Or if not the big screen, at least my blog.
Man, SO tempted to post a photo of me and boyfriend on my dad's sailboat with me in my cast. Or me in my broken-toe shoe posing in front of Dad's sailboat. But now I'm distracted wondering what he REALLY used the sailboat for...