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Jewish World Review /Dec. 11, 1998 /22 Kislev, 5759
MUGGER
Irving’s the King Wolf
LET ME INTRODUCE YOU to Irving the Wolf, the marquee character
of a bedtime story I told my child, MUGGER III, each night while on holiday recently in Puerto Rico.
Back in 1975, I traveled in Europe for a month with my oldest brother, his wife
and two children. My niece and nephew were eight and five and my ticket to a wonderful
tour of Scandinavia, France, Germany and Holland was to be the nanny. I
was in college at the time, 20 years old, and residing in Baltimore,
subsiding on wages from a vendor’s job at the Orioles’ Memorial Stadium.
Living it up in swanky hotels, drinking the finest wines and beers, as
well as visiting world-class museums and castles, was a welcome
switcheroo from dinners at Polock Johnny’s and arguing with a crooked
union official about whether I’d be selling popcorn or Cokes at an O’s
home game.
Anyway, each night, as I put the kids to sleep, I told them an ongoing
story about Irving, a benevolent creature who was half-wolf, half-man,
and spoke in a language that only Uncle Rusty could decipher. Don’t know
how I pulled it off, but both Abbie and Cal bought the fable and as I
drank the beer of each country --- Heineken in Amsterdam, Pilsner Urquel on
the Rhine, Carlsberg in Denmark --- the story grew more and more fantastic.
Like Irving climbing the Eiffel Tower and spitting at tourists; Irving
saving my skin from a knife-wielding thief at the Tivoli Gardens. It all got out of hand,
but as the suds went down my gullet, my imagination went into overdrive
and the kids nearly barfed from laughing so much. I’ve rarely had as
much fun.
One day, while my brother and his wife were having a two-star meal in
Copenhagen, the three of us (plus the invisible Irving) were at a
sausage joint that doubled as a poor man’s casino. I was so entranced by
the slot machines that I bought the kids dogs and fries and had my
nephew ferry back beers to my station. Which was quite a sight: a
four-year-old taking two beers at a time to his uncle who was striking
out at the slots. I was on a losing streak at one point and so Abbie
said, “Uncle Rusty, I feel lucky. Give me a krone.” Whereupon she won
about $100 with one swipe of the handle.
The Irving stories were a
constant throughout the trip and got more outrageous; by the end of our
sojourn he was part of the family.
So, in San Juan, Irving made a comeback. I told MUGGER III all about
our adventures of 23 years ago and he was transfixed. Hugging his Baby
Dil doll, he wouldn’t go to sleep until I got to a “good” part, like
Irving scaling the fire escape of Hotel Meurice in Paris or fending off
another burglar. Junior just rolled his eyes at the perfidy of it all;
he watched Doctor Dolittle on the tube and I had to bribe him with
Sprites not to clue his little brother in on the subterfuge. But our
youngest son is the sweetest soul in the world and believed every word;
he especially liked the part where Irving dressed in a Savile Row
suit--with his tail pinned back--so he could travel back to the States
with us. He made me promise to keep up the Irving stories on every trip
we take in the future, which, of course, will be my pleasure.
There's always a snafu at the beginning of a vacation, but while
usually it’s the fault of an airline--in my case, Continental’s the most
frequent culprit, since we fly out of Newark--this time it was the
Ritz-Carlton where, upon arrival, we had to wait more than three hours
to occupy our two-bedroom suite.
Yes, it was busy the day before
Thanksgiving, and there was an excuse about the computer system being on
the fritz, but when I saw other customers come and go, keys in hand,
after we’d arrived, I saw stars and acted like the stereotypical New
Yorker Iowans like to mock.
The meek receptionist finally found our
room--but five minutes later we were back in the lobby, since it was a
single for four people. I parked Junior and MUGGER III on the marble
counter and said, “Listen, Buster, I’ve waited long enough. Get this
straightened out, summon your manager or these two boys are going to
jump out of their skins and bite your sorry behind!”
He disappeared for
half an hour, but finally delivered our preconfirmed suite.
Once the bell captain deposited our bags, I immediately called our
travel agent--Marv Kadesh (908-754-4449)--and had him ring the Ritz and
administer a sound reaming to the manager. Voila! A cheese plate
suddenly arrived, t-shirts for the boys, champagne and a call from the
hotel’s top exec on the premises promising no further screwups.
The following morning the kids woke us up, angry that their favorite
cartoons were in Spanish. Due to the time difference, it took an
eternity for the English version of Pokemon to hit the tube on WB-11. By
that time, they’d been stuffed with pancakes and apple juice and were
relatively quiet while I watched CNN on another set. I couldn’t escape
that darn Rudy Giuliani.
Commenting about Spider-Man deflating during
the Thanksgiving parade, that card Rudy, decked out in a Yanks jacket,
said, “I guess he had too much to drink last night.” Just shut,
Mr. Mayor and senator-to-be.
(What a nightmare that campaign promises to be: With Bobby Kennedy Jr.,
an admirable man, I think, and by far the brightest of that family’s
third generation, passing on the race, you can’t escape the horrid
speculation that Hillary Clinton will make a run against Rudy for Daniel
Patrick Moynihan’s seat. What chutzpah. Even RFK, whose clan at least
had a summer home in New York, was called a carpetbagger by angry New
Yorkers in 1964.
And this was less than a year after his brother was
murdered. And now Hillary has her sights on the seat. I think it’s just
momentary buzz; with all the baggage from her Rose Law Firm days, not to
mention the White House, she’d be savaged by the press and will opt
out.)
The Ritz, after the initial difficulty, a fine hotel, with prompt room
service, a terrific pool and a beach, if not as pristine as that of
Nevis, still pounding with a surf that enchanted the boys as we built
sand castles with moats and bridges. Every day there were two or three
rainbows to behold, vibrant with distinct greens, reds, yellows and
blues, the kind you see in New York maybe once a year, only after a
violent midday rainstorm.
The boys made friends with other kids, almost
all from the Tri-State environs, and I ran into an old friend, Cynthia,
whom I hadn’t seen in years. One group we commiserated with at the
check-in desk was from Queens; when they asked where we lived and I said
near the Holland Tunnel, the twentysomething woman said, “Oh my God,
Tribeca, how cool!”
We chatted briefly with a couple from the Upper West Side, but when
they claimed they’d never read NYPress, I dismissed them as Michael
Moore acolytes and kept my distance. Mrs. Mugger also had to get rough with a
crusty lady on the beach who complained about Junior digging holes in
the sand too close to her umbrella-chaise lounge setup. “What’s the
matter with you,” my wife gruffly asked, defending her pup. “Don’t you
like kids?” That shut the hag up and she moved far, far away.
Before we set off for San Juan I told the boys that I’d be speaking
only in Spanish once we arrived. This was sort of a whopper, since my
college Espanol is shaky at best--“Pig-Espanol,” Mrs. M said. “Muy
Pig-Espanol,” my brother Gary added over the phone--but I had a lot of
fun teasing them. I’d say, “Andale, Senor Junior; Ay caramba, Senor
MUGGER Tres!” and they’d laugh and tell me to knock it off. One night,
after three hours of lollygagging by the pool, the boys were in the bath
and I went on a Spanish roll; Junior said to my wife, “Mom, I think Dad
really needs to get back to New York. He’s ready for the loony bin.”
Saturday afternoon, while the boys played with a lovely sitter named
Marisa, and Mrs. M was lounging at the pool reading The White Spider, I
ventured into Old San Juan, hoping to see the 17th-century Spanish
architecture and maybe find a restaurant that would serve fare a bit
more exotic than the Ritz. (Actually, unlike most hotels, the Ritz’s
grub was pretty good: arroz con pollo, minced beef stuffed in fried
plantains and delectable papaya.) The traffic was clogged, and once I
alighted from the cab I was just one of a mob of mostly American
tourists, roaming the streets and venturing into the souvenir shops that
sold Caribbean knickknacks for dirt-cheap prices. I bought San
Juan-manufactured piggy banks for the boys, a rasta voodoo doll for Mike
Gentile, religious icons for John Strausbaugh and Katha Kearns and then
kicked around like a carefree gent.
The buildings were indeed gorgeous;
various shades of pastels, with floor-to-ceiling windows and lace
railings like you see in New Orleans. Only problem was, the first floors
were all inhabited by the likes of Hooters, Hard Rock Cafe, McDonald’s,
Burger King, Foot Locker, Wendy’s and KFC.
I spent a scant two hours in Old San Juan.
Another afternoon found Mrs. M and me in the Ritz’s casino, which, not
surprisingly, was nearly empty at 1 p.m. While she fiddled at the
blackjack table, I had my ups and downs playing roulette, annoying the
young workers with my naivete, but coming out slightly ahead. It was
those damn slot machines that made our 45 minutes in the smoky den a
financial downturn; I just couldn’t resist slipping dollar after dollar
into the poker machines, and after I’d blown $100 we called it quits,
much to the merriment of the bored crew waiting for the high rollers to
arrive. I’m a sucker for vices of many kinds.
Fortunately for my Citibank account, gambling isn’t one of
JWR contributor "Mugger" is the editor-in-chief and publisher of New York Press. Send your comments to him by clicking here.
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