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(Continued from NEO CLASSISM PT. 5)
Several years ago, I found myself traveling cross country on a plane with a friend I’ll call ‘Bethany,’ whose pat-response reaction to her hideous children’s demands for attention was the ceaseless dispensing of 100-calorie packs of Animal Crackers, Oreo cookies, and Snackwell Pastries. Bethany, whose transit itinerary consisted of pouring over back issues of IN-STYLE, THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER, and PEOPLE had giddily deferred her on-board parenting role to the frazzled flight attendants and the good people at Nabisco, Pepperidge Farms, and Frito Lay. Were Bethany’s children to take ill and need defibrillation during our flight, I’m certain she would have reached into her enormous Gucci knockoff purse, pull out a handful of junk food and while never taking her eyes from her tabloid, hurl the contents at the gasping, choking sounds emanating from the seats directly behind her.
When I questioned Bethany about her ‘technique’ she shrugged her shoulders and said that it was either the junk food or the administering of Children’s Benadryl, whose narcotic, coma-like effects on even the rowdiest children are well known. At the time, I was utterly horrified and took it upon myself to entertain both her children and my son Ethan for the entire five hour plane ride. My philanthropy ended 45 minutes later after Bethany’s dangerously wired 7 year old son, Jacob, told me to fuck myself after I denied his request for a Red Bull. When I mentioned Jacob’s ‘Fuck you’ remark to Bethany, she gave me a ‘what-can-you-do’ look, reached into her purse, turned, and lobbed a pack of Fig Newtons at Jacob hitting him painfully in the chest.
Standing in the men’s department of Saks being drilled about professional baseball by my relentless son Ethan, Bethany’s ‘what-can-you-do’ look floated into my mind. It became clear that no amount of bewildering Yiddish cliches or fruity tangents concerning hand stitching was going to throw my son Ethan from the Los Angeles Dodger trail. Drastic times call for drastic measures.
“Ethan, I think we both could use a little Mr. Softee ice cream right now! How about it?”
Ethan mercifully abandoned his baseball inquisition as he and I charged up Fifth Avenue in search of the ONLY man in America I’ve ever been faithful to, Mr. Softee. As Ethan and I sat on a bench in Central Park licking our ice cream cones, a homeless man shuffled up to us with plaintive look on his face. Astonishingly, Ethan, without any provocation from me, offered the man his ice cream cone. The homeless man smiled graciously, but declined Ethan’s generous offer. While Ethan returned to devouring his ice cream cone, I placed my head on his small shoulder, magnificently content as the life lesson I had so meticulously planned, melted away like the Mr. Softee vanilla ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles I held in my sticky hand.
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