Wisecracking Across America - 36. Chapter 36

Thursday, June 17, 1999

The first time I saw Washington, I was in high school. It was Easter, and my best friend Jeff and I were taking a bike trip, our longest so far. Because we didn't really have enough time, we took the train there, then planned to cycle back.

My cousin Larry met us, soon after we checked into the Y. That seemed only fair since he was the one who'd started us long-distance-riding. He was my model for other things as well: not only did he own the first ten-speed I ever saw, and lead Youth Hostel trips throughout New England, he also drove a neat black Bug.

I wanted his bike.

I wanted that car.

Later on, I had a crush on his wife.

That was his first wife---there were four. Fortunately, by then, I'd stopped imitating him. Still, he had a good run as superhero, ending in Africa, along with his marriage.

The lost Lenore. Honest.

Larry's still fine. He and his present wife Muriel---who introduces herself as his last wife---were the cousins Tom and I visited in Rhode Island. And maybe she's held on for fifteen years because she refused Africa.

Larry first went there as I started college. Other guys had Playboy bunnies hanging on their walls. I had posters of Addis Ababa. Larry spent several happy years there with his growing family, and I think Lenore was all right till Larry got transferred to Viet Nam.

Not a time and place to raise kids.

So Lenore went back to Washington, waiting there with the children. Larry's next posting was again Africa, which made one of the four of them happy. He ended up going alone.

Then we lost touch for a while, so I'm not sure his second wife, Judy, ever even left the States. Maybe she just sensed Africa was a place she didn't need to see. Though she loved Larry.

His third wife lasted longer, and didn't go nuts in the sun like Isak Dinesen or Meryl Streep. Gloria was closer to Elaine Stritch, though probably never sang Bongo, Bongo, Bongo, I Don't Wanna Leave the Congo. She left the Congo---and Larry---though truthfully, I think they spent most of their time in Malawi.

Which brought Muriel. At one point I'd heard that all four of Larry's wives knew each other in college, but it turned out that only Judy and Muriel knew each other, and were roommates. Still, Larry wasn't exactly stretching his dating pool. Though he must've had something going, especially since he'd long given up ten-speeds and Volkswagens. And Muriel took Larry, but refused travel, except to meet him, occasionally, in Paris. She based herself in D.C.

Which was the second time I saw the city, on my way to working there. Again, Larry showed me around.

A lot had changed. Surprisingly, it was prettier. Though everywhere, there were construction cranes.

Still, I couldn't run up the Washington Monument the way Jeff and I had. Actually, we climbed all those stairs not to see the carved and dedicated state stones flanking them, but to save a dime. Literally. We didn't have a lot of money, so figured it would be cheaper to walk. Though we rode the free elevator down.

I didn't go out to Arlington the second trip either. JFK had lost some of his luster.

But I did sample authentic Ethiopian cuisine. Muriel let Larry take me to a small restaurant in Adams-Morgan. "Don't you want to come?" I'd asked. She'd just smiled.

The table was the size of a large pizza and covered with a disk of pita-like bread. Larry ordered, since I wouldn't have known what to get, and soon small clumps of delicacies had been heaped geometrically on the bread before us. I tried a pale one, figuring it benign, and quickly grabbed for water---though I don't remember exactly where it was on this unleavened table. I do know I soon needed a pitcher of the stuff.

Not Larry. He gleefully ripped off piece after piece of pita, scooped up heap after heap of hot stuff and scarfed it down. Soon water was running freely down his forehead and face and I wished I could've tapped into it.

"You like?" he asked, sounding a bit too much like Bloody Mary.

"Is this hot?" I replied hesitantly, indicating a pile.

"Naw," he'd say---but this was a guy who swallowed fire. I'd take the tiniest bite, on the largest piece of bread, and my eyes would melt.

This went on for an hour, maybe longer. I don't remember dessert, but there probably was something, spicy and oversweet. And I'll bet Larry had terrifying coffee.

"Nice dinner?" Muriel asked when we got back.

"Great!" Larry roared.

"Need something to eat?" she asked me.

When Larry left the Information Agency, he and Muriel retired outside Providence---she'd been raised nearby. The only trace of Africa in their house is the masks, samples of which have also migrated to my mother. The lost Lenore turned up again, too. She's now a Psych prof in Illinois.

None of which helped Tom and me, stuck that afternoon on the Interstate near Dulles. Whenever you hear about L.A., they always mention traffic, like the city's a magnet for all the tie-ups in the world. But California doesn't have the worst snarls---and certainly not the worst drivers. It just has the most cars.

Hitting Washington in the rain also reminded me that when the roads there even get the slightest bit damp, everyone forgets how to merge. One of my friends thinks it's all the A-types, attracted to government work: they can't merge because they can't work together. Another friend claims it's typical bureaucratic caution. But a former boss of mine had the best answer: he blamed the lousy signs. "By the time you read where you are," he warned, "you've missed your turn."

361 miles