The five of us made a motley assortment. And it was 3:45 in the morning. Uncle Slappy, Aunt Sylvie, my wife, Whiskey and I sped home from Boston this morning--leaving three hours before dawn.
Passover or not, my wife and I had work to attend to and since Slappy hardly sleeps at all (except when he conks out watching the ferstunkeneh Knicks) we piled, the five of us into a tinny Mazda 5 and traveled home.
My wife had directions spoken to her by her phone. This was something that flabbergasted Uncle Slappy.
"What kind of job is that, being in a phone? Why didn't you rent a proper UPS."
"GPS," I corrected brusquely. I wasn't really ready for the Slappy show, working as I was on three hours sleep.
"In my day," the old man galloped, "we had proper maps. And no shiksa in a phone telling us where to go."
"That's progress," I muttered
"Yes," the old man agreed for once. "Progress means more efficient ways to get lost."
But for once my wife found our way through the warren of winding Boston streets and onto the Mass Pike. In minutes we had the highway to ourselves.
Whiskey stirred in the far back seat, and Sylvie and Slappy did the same.
My wife kept her eyes on the road and her ears listening for the electronic shiksa.
The rest of us drifted into sleep until we hit the city.
Happy Passover, everyone.