Mr. Top's Wild Drive: A Thanksgiving Story

Flat out, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and this one has been memorable already. As I write, I am alone, eating a plate of food that one of Mr. Top's caregivers left for me. I normally do all the evening cooking in this house, because there are few things I enjoy more than cooking for people (I include myself in the category "people "). I like my own cooking, but this plate of ham, stuffing, macaroni and cheese(?), greens, egg salad, and cranberry sauce is pretty damn wonderful. Thank you, Keedra. Why am I alone? Blessedly alone?

Well, for starters, I'm in St. Louis, far from my loved ones in Denver. But I am blessedly alone because, for the first time in my temporary residence here, I'm alone in this house; what's more, I therefore don't have to feel guilty for not sitting with Mr. Top while he watches television. I do that as much as I can, which isn't very much, because very few things in the world depress me more than the sound of daytime television, add to that most nighttime television. But Mr. Top, though as bright a fellow as you'll meet, has no interest in reading or listening to music. He enjoys two activities only: visiting with friends, and watching television; and, frankly, at his age (92), and with his disabilities (stuck in a wheelchair with little use of his hands) he doesn't get out much, and not many old friends come around. Actually, not many old friends are around.

Which brings me at last to my topic: Mr. Top's Thanksgiving. There is a mysterious woman, Sally, who has, since I have been here, invited him to "the club" for "dinner" once a month. Her mysterious nephew Jonathan comes to fetch him. I help get Mr. Top into the car, wave, and say, "Have a good time." No, I am not then alone in the house. One of his caregivers is always here. Now, I'm not sure if this "club" is some kind of satanic orgiastic cult, geriatric sex club, or just a dinner club, and I don't care. The point is that a mysterious woman, whom I have not met, invites him there monthly, and he always comes home with a smile on his face. Some weeks ago the mysterious Jonathan invited Mr. Top to Thanksgiving, to be shared with the mysterious Sally, at his house. The caregiver who took the call wrote the address on the refrigerator marker board. Not one hour ago, I dropped him off there. I had relieved the caregiver so that she could have Thanksgiving with her family, and I could return home and enjoy some blessed solitude.

I made a note of the address on the marker board: 9508 Fondue, University City (not the actual address). I punched it into my Iphone. My Iphone said "no match." Annoyed, I punched it in again. Siri replied, "What do you not understand about no match, asshole?" Apparently, the new operating system has made Siri as grouchy as it made me. I knew where University City was, so I decided, "What the hell, we'll easily find this address." To be fair to me, Fondue street only exists for a block, dead ending on both sides on obscure avenues that only a University City planner would recognize. Neither myself nor Mr. Top is or was a University City planner, though Mr. Top did live there for most of his life; he just didn't plan anything. The appointment was for 4:00 p.m. We left at 3:30 to allow plenty of time. As we drove down Clayton, I said to Mr. Top, "Could we get there faster if we catch Delmar off of Lindbergh?" Mr. Top said "Yes." I never should have asked the question, and he certainly should have known the correct answer, which was "No."

Thirty-five minutes later, in a galaxy far, far away:
Mr. Top (annoyed): "You got us all turned around!"
Me: "I know. I'm really sorry, but to be fair, you did say that Delmar intersected Lindbergh."
Mr. Top: "I thought it did! But I'm old and can't remember. You should know better than to listen to me!"
Me (not quite knowing how to reply): "Well, don't worry, we'll find it."
Mr. Top: "Probably about midnight!"
Me: "No, I promise I'll get you there at least by 11:30." (he laughs, I feel stupid)

By now I have called the number the mysterious Jonathan had left for us six or seven times, but he isn't answering. Siri is still being a bitch. I'm on my own. I stop at a QT (what the hell are they doing working on Thanksgiving? Thank God they are working on Thanksgiving!). They steer me to University City. Now all I have to do is find Fondue Street. I do not yet know that Fondue Street only exists for a block between two obscure avenues, the 85 hundred block. There is no 95 hundred block of Fondue--only, in all of St. Louis, an 85 hundred block. There isn't even an 84 hundred block. Some moron wrote down the wrong address. After driving in circles, squares, and rhombuses for forty more minutes in University City, incessantly calling the mysterious Jonathan on my cell (he doesn't answer) to get directions, Mr Top is really getting pissed, and trying hard, and failing somewhat, not to show it:

Mr. Top: "I'm going to miss Thanksgiving! And it's your fault!"
Me: "Oh really? . . . Thanksgiving, or some kind of big crazy sex party?"
Mr. Top (offended): "What?"
Me: "Oh, don't think I don't know about you and Sally and that so-called club."
Mr. Top: "You have a very sick mind. You got that from my brother, your father."
Me: "There you go with your sibling rivalry again. I got my sick mind all on my own . . . as if you don't have a sick mind. Every man has a sick mind."
Mr. Top: "Not I. I do not think dirty thoughts."
Me: "Well, congratulations. I do. I think lots of dirty thoughts."
Mr. Top: "I know. Just like my brother. And . . . he died, didn't he?"
Me: "Yes, almost thirteen years ago now."
Mr. Top: "They all died at same time, I think . . . my parents, my wife and daughter, and your dad. They're all gone now. It's just me."
Me: "Not quite at the same time, but I can see why it seems that way to you. I'm still here, too, you know."
Mr. Top: "I know you're here. But where is here? We're lost. You can't find your way around."

He's right of course. Mr, Top is now an hour late. We left a half-hour early, so we'd been driving for 90 minutes. I'm feeling incompetent and crappy, and not just because he'll be late. Mr Top depends upon Depends, but they can only be depended upon for so long. I am increasing the chance that he'll have an embarrassing accident while a guest in a friend's home; that when I return to collect him he'll be embarrassed, demoralized, and stinky. He deserves better. I decide to drive up and down the only block of Fondue I have managed to find, the 85 hundred block, the only one that actually exists, though I still don't know this.

Me: "I'm beginning to think there is no ninety-five hundred block of Fondue. If only Jonathan would answer his stupid phone."
Mr. Top: "He's probably not home."
Me: "Not home? He invited you for Thanksgiving and left this number!"
Mr. Top: "But they probably left for the restaurant."
Me: "What restaurant? You were going to a restaurant?"
Mr. Top: "I don't know. Maybe. If he were home he'd answer his phone."
Me: "One of your caregivers apparently wrote down the wrong address."
Mr. Top: "Well, they aren't very educated girls."
Me: "If I get you there, I'll apologize and take full responsibility for your late arrival."
Mr. Top: "That would be nice, since it's fully your responsibility."
Me: "Not fully; one of the girls wrote down the wrong address, my Iphone isn't working right, and you thought we could get to Delmar from Lindbergh . . . so, not all my fault, just too many things going wrong at once."
Mr. Top (annoyed): "I didn't even want to go on Lindbergh! That was your idea. There was a very simple way to get there and you didn't want to take it!"
Me: "And I think you know why . . . it's because I'm a rebel."
Mr. Top: "Kind of like your father. And look where it got us!"

Driving on Fondue, I see a group of people in front of a house. I stop to ask them about the 95 hundred block. I open my mouth to speak and realize that I am looking through the car window into the face of the mysterious Jonathan. He has a glass of wine in his hand. Cars full of people are just arriving. I try to explain our lateness but give up, realizing we're apparently not late at all. "Sally isn't here yet," he says. We get Mr. Top's wheelchair from the trunk, transfer him into it, and lift him up the stairs into the house. The house is full of lovely looking people of all ages; the main room is warm, filled with wonderful Thanksgiving aromas. The room seems to glow with inviting colors and smiles. No sex. My prurient mind is let down, but my spirit is elevated. Mr. Top is delighted to be out, delighted to be in the company of nice people. I'm happy for him, but still feeling foolish for being a rebel who wanted to take Lindbergh. Lindbergh, a man who, may I remind you, found Paris from Long Island. In 1927. In a plane. By himself. At least I'm not an anti-Semite. The mysterious Jonathan looks at me, and speaks in a voice somewhat lacking in sincerity:

The Mysterious Jonathan: "Thanks for bringing him. Will you join us too?"
Me: "Thank you. That is very kind, but I'm way to frazzled to be good company."
The Mysterious Jonathan: "I get that."

I think the mysterious Jonathan was frazzled too and envied me the chance to escape. I drove the short distance home in 15 minutes. I hurried inside and put my plate of ham, greens, stuffing, and macaroni and cheese(?) in the microwave. I poured a glass of wine, then sat down to eat, blessedly alone . . . but not before I looked at the marker board on the refrigerator. Written there, clearly, was "8509 Fondue Street. 5 o'clock.