A day of remembrance, and frustration

Christmas is near, so I decided to go to Bethlehem.

No, not the one on the West Bank. The one near Allentown.

And not to celebrate a birth of an infant, but to memorialize an adult’s life ended.

Dick Claussen was a dear friend, a friendship born in the basement offices of the newspaper of Brooklyn College’s evening division in 1960. For the record, the offices were located in LaGuardia Hall, named after a famous and loved earlier New York mayor.

As I wrote in a column last month, Dick was born on December 7 — yes, 1941 — and died Nov. 22, the anniversary of of JFK’s assassination. Unforgettable dates, for an unforgettable man.

Dick’s widow, the beautiful and gracious Ann, and his daughter, the beautiful and brilliant Katie, organized Friday as a celebration of life. Luckily, the really bad weather weakened to just cold and rain as I hit the road for the 140-mile round trip.

Most of the mileage was on the Northeast Extension, which I haven’t been on for 20 years. Wow! Three lanes where it meets I-76. 

Wow! No toll booths. If you don’t have EZ Pass they mail you a bill. Toll takers are now as absent as running boards. If you don’t know running boards, ask Grandpa.

There were many new, large, single homes in the Harleysville area, but north of there, going into the Lehigh Valley, things remain bucolic.

I was maybe the second person to arrive, and, as it turned out, I was the person who knew Dick the longest. 

I wanted to see Dick and Ann’s wedding album, because I was the best man, and probably looked better in 1980 than at any time in my life.

Just 42 years, and half a lifetime ago.

The years pancake like a house of cards. 

Among the small circle of student editors, Dick was the last to marry, and the only one to not divorce. There is a logic in waiting until you are really mature, sowing all wild oats, and choosing well. I envied Dick his life partner, his stable family life, and his friends, many of whom attended the celebration of life. Many of them told me Dick spoke of me often, and in positive terms. That’s what they said. 

Dick and I didn’t speak often, or even email. Most years it was an exchange of annual letters, but we remained close despite that. I was hoping to see him at my 80th birthday party last year, but he was already in the grip of poor health. Ann’s health was also not good, but Dick seemed determined to hire a limo to attend.

That’s when I got a call from Katie, who explained Dick’s condition, and recruited me to dissuade him from attending. I did that, thinking there would be time for me to see him again. I was wrong and I half second-guessed my decision to encourage him to bow out. 

Spilled milk. 

I enjoyed a long conversation with Ann’s brother, Andy, who I hadn’t seen since their wedding. I was Dick’s best man, Andy was a groom’s man, with a mop of Beatle-like hair. He still had it, but gray today.

I had a bite to eat, but nothing to drink.

The day before, trying to get a handle on a mystery pain and some swelling in my left leg, my MD prescribed water pills, warning that one side effect would be a need to pee frequently.

As soon as I got to the Claussen homestead, after greeting Ann, I needed what the courts now call a “comfort break.” You may know I spent five days in court, clawing out a defamation victory against my former employer and a former coworker — I would not say colleague — who isn’t hooked up right.

The judge called them not “bathroom breaks,” not “restroom breaks,” but “comfort breaks.” I expected a massage and a drink, but no — it was a trip to the bathroom in Philadelphia’s 120-year old City Hall.

The trip home was annoying in several respects.

Waze was great. So much better than maps and written directions. But it couldn’t steer me away from all the heavy traffic, and I had my eye on the sinking needle on the gas gauge.

Even though I took a comfort break before leaving, I needed another one, just as I hit the turnpike. Fortunately, there was the Allentown rest comfort stop.

The bathroom was empty — except for two men, each of whom occupied a handicapped stall. Since busting my quadriceps in 2016, I have been on a cane. Earlier this year I had a hip replacement, which didn’t help matters.

It reminded me of an episode of Larry David’s HBO show in which he usurped a handicapped stall.

It’s not so funny when it happens to you.

So I struggled with a regular stall, with no grip bar. I needed all my strength and my cane to get out of there.

Shake it off, as Taylor Swift says.

I wanted a cup of coffee, but voted that down because of the pee issue.

I pulled the car up to a pump to take care of the gas issue. I popped the hidden lever under the dash to open the gas door, pulled myself out of the car, went around to the other side. That’s when I found the gas nozzle was inoperative. Only diesel worked. “Fuck!” I said, standing in the rain.

I looked at the next pump, in front of me. 

Gas also nonoperative.

“Fuck, fuck.”

I decided to roll the dice on the gas.

About an hour later, as I entered the Blue Route, the gas warning went on. It said “41 miles.” Waze told me I would be home in 20.

Oh-kaaay.

About 10 minutes later, the warning showed “46 miles.”

The gas tank was refilling?

WTF?

Ten minutes later, back to “41.”

I got on the East River Drive and it read “——- miles.”

Uh-oh.

I headed for the popular gas station in East Falls on Midvale Avenue. The water pill was working. The plan: Fill the gas tank, empty mine. The first part worked. I locked my car and walked into the station. The second part? The gas station says “no public restroom.” 

“I’m not public, I just spent $40 on gas,” I said to the shrugging attendant.

I walked out, turned the corner of the building, found some high bushes and made that public.

Not proud, just desperate.

I got into my car, turned on the lights and drove off.

The Drive was jammed, but at one point, stopped by traffic, some jerkoff was honking his horn, as if that would make the traffic move.

A couple of minutes later, a guy rolled up next to me, gesturing. I rolled down my window.

“Your lights are off!”

I was the jerkoff. I had left my car lights on at the gas station, and when I returned to the car, I turned them off, thinking I was turning them on.

I had a good laugh at myself, as I headed into Center City, ending my day down memory lane.