Get Busy Living - New York Book Festival - Part 1

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If you aren't getting busy living, you're getting busy dying.

I spent part of the week thinking about the Bob Dylan original thought and despite the fact that I wasn't sleeping in the same bed on consecutive nights I knew that I had to unpack from Syracuse and immediately put a bag together for New York City so I could stand in front of an audience and announce Jeff's birthday.

The book was being honored again. It's not my honor. It's our honor. All of ours. My siblings, my parents, my friends, my readers.

The least I can do is show up.

So we will begin this little ditty at 8 pm on Friday night:

June 21, 2013 - 8 p.m.

"I'm dressing casual," I said.

"No matter what you wear it's casual," my beautiful wife answered.

She was at the computer checking me in for the early morning flight. She was giving great consideration on how I'd get from JFK to the event near Times Square.

"Remember when you paid a guy $50 to hail you a cab?" she asked.

"I'm gonna' just get a car," I said.

I rifled through the closet and came up with what I thought was a good scheme. A pair of black pants and a bright yellow shirt.

Kathy was already shaking me off.

"You'll see your nipples in that," she said. "And besides by the time the thing starts you'll have that shirt all shitted-up with whatever meal you eat."

Shitted-up.

We settled on a pair of tan pants and a darker blue shirt. Both in good shape. She handed me my boarding pass as I set my alarm for way too early again. My cell phone buzzed a text.

"What're you doing Clippo?" my buddy Chris asked.

"Just got back from Syracuse. Getting ready to go to New York."

"Have fun with it," Chris said. "Don't be whiny. It's a good thing."

I laid my head on the pillow thinking about people I love telling me to not be whiny.

Warning me about getting things shitted-up.

Get busy living.

Happy Birthday.

It's a wonder I slept at all.

Saturday Morning - June 22 - 5:30 a.m.

The sun was shining bright through my window. I was up early. Before the alarm, which I haven't actually heard ring in about 10 years.

"Happy Birthday," I said.

The dog stirred awake beside me.

"If we're going bye-byes you better get your ass moving," I said.

I shuffled through the morning routine. I double-checked my bag and tried not to wrinkle the clothes I'd be wearing to the event. I was traveling in shorts and a Yankee shirt. I was tired.

Don't be whiny.

On the way to the airport I went straight to the E-Street Station. Only Bruce on Jeff's birthday. I half-expected American Land, but it was Streets of Philadelphia.

I wanted to keep my eyes open for signs, but perhaps there wouldn't be any. Maybe looking for God to drop little things in on me was wishful thinking.

I checked my ticket.

The plane was scheduled to leave at 8:23.

Okay, there was a coincidence. Jeff and I had forever fought over the number 23 because we both loved Mattingly.

Coincidence.

Saturday Morning - June 22 - 7:30 a.m.

The line to get through security wound around like a long snake. There were an awful lot of people looking to head out. Most everyone was smiling their way through the process. I thought of what I always think of as I have to battle through it:

Friggin' Bin Laden.

Then I thought of something my old college roommate, Fluffy, always used to yell in crowds of people:

Don't you people have homes to go to?

I smiled to myself. There would be a lot of people along with me on this trip.


Saturday Morning - June 22 - 8:23 a.m.

The plane lifted off right on time. I was seated in row 23. The guy next to me had breath so bad that I thought about the paint peeling off the walls of the inside of the plane. He smiled. I put my headset on after giving him a head nod. They interrupted the television service to give me the safety features. They were talking about how to put my oxygen mask on. I could almost hear my wife whispering in my ear:

You better hope you don't have to figure out how to do that. You'll end up strangling yourself.

I thought about my own death for a fleeting second. If it happened here, it'd be okay, I supposed, but if we landed in the Hudson I'd be swimming hard to stay alive.

And to get away from the guy with the rancid breath.

As we headed in for the landing I looked at the water below. It was dark and still and we headed closer to it. The boats were still really just tiny little white specks. I counted out six of them. I thought about growing up in a house-filled with laughter a long ways away.

We're all along for the ride.

The plane landed at 9:23 a.m.

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