Destiny
By Ken Hurley
First of all, let’s clear up one thing, I am not a hero. While I may have a humanist sense for the well-being of others mental and physical strength, and at one point in life I may have been a real looker, I am no hero.
Nor am I a teatotaler. I enjoy a small sip of bourbon which people in Kentucky still believe is the nectar of the gods. They might be right. The people in Tennessee might disagree but that’s a story for another day.
It all happened late on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. It was a peaceful scene by the lake where the willows reflected as the smell of honeysuckle wafted through my nostrils while I walked through the park in my boxers, bathrobe and slippers, feather boa around my neck, smoking a short stogie, with a small bourbon in hand, belting out Cyndi Lauper’s, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”. When fate, as I suppose you might call it, brought Destiny to me.
“Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?”
I thought this must be some kind of a joke. Did she just call me sir? I stopped singing to gather my thoughts as I stifled a belch. I looked her over and knew this lovely person was the stuff dreams are made of. Not nightmares. The vivid good dreams. Her immense pulchritude turned my eyeballs into two big red throbbing hearts. And she needed help. She was lost. I do at least know the way to San Jose.
I guzzled my last sips of bourbon as I squashed my cigar butt under my slipper and put the whiskey tumbler in my robe pocket and tied my robe closed. After all, I am a gentleman. I straightened my spine and said with a smile, “Well, hello gorgeous!” A line I borrowed from Barbara Streisand’s Fanny Brice.
She returned, “Hi” with a sultry voice that could launch a thousand billionaires into space.
And so our pithy conversation began. I offered my name and asked for her name in return. Something I learned in junior high school etiquette class where we balanced a copy of Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette on our head while we walked in circles. We would have learned more if we actually read it.
“I’m Destiny,” she said with a look that made our chance encounter seem as inevitable as a GOP lie.
I almost said, “Pleased to meet you, Destiny, I’m Ron Dayvous,” but nah. Spare her the pun.
Stunned by her beauty, my thoughts raced yet were stuck inside my head. As I struggled to find a seamless sequiter to demonstrate I’m more than just a boy in a bathrobe. I babbled, “Leonard Bernstein sure could parry a baton!” Oh, dear.
Fortunately, as chance would have it, Destiny was not put off by my appearance or lack of coherence. I circled my thoughts, cleared my mind and said, “Yes. I do. I can walk you there. It’s not far.”
“That’s very kind. I’m late and not sure how to get there from here.”
I gulped, took a deep breath and we began our walk through the park.
Destiny carried a tattered violin case and a canvas shopping bag with a picture of Karl Marx on the side. Or, was it Jerry Garcia?
Our conversation ranged from our shared inability to discern the difference among the Brontë sisters, to wondering how many Warner Brothers were there?
She asked, “Do you believe in life after death?”
“Of course! Lot’s of life after death. Just not yours or mine.”
She then wondered, “Do you believe God exists?”
“Sure! Similar to the way Mickey Mouse exists. Created to makes us feel better about ourselves.”
“What’s the difference between “should” and “must”, she blurted.
An odd question. But ok, I’m enjoying the walk.
“Must” is used to express an unavoidable requirement or obligation; while “should” is used as a suggestion that may also include, hopes, dreams and aspirations.
She even asked what I thought about Freethought.
“It’s great!” I said. “But I prefer to get paid. There was a time when you could get a penny for your thoughts. And, that’s my two cents worth!”
As we giggled through our chit-chat over the hierarchy of angels and the distinction between a seraphim and a cherubim, Destiny stumbled and fell hard. Her violin case smashed to the ground snapped open as her violin bounced out and up toward the sky. The contents of her Marx Garcia shopping bag scattered while Destiny lay moaning on her side holding her ankle.
Despite my small bourbon intake, my reflexes were faster than a one-percenter spotting a tax loophole.
Just before the violin crashed back to the pavement I swooped my pinky around the G string and avoided disaster.
I turned to Destiny, “Are you alright?” She looked at me like Lois Lane looked at Superman and gushed, “You saved my violin!” Then groaned, “My ankle. I don’t think I can walk.”
I gathered the items that fell from her bag. Put the violin back in its case. Then scooped up Destiny and held her in my arms as if crossing a threshold and carried her to Carnegie Hall where she played first chair. We made it just in time too.
Destiny was filled with gratitude. Gratitude, a rare commodity these days. “You are my hero, thank you!”
“Awe, I’m no hero. Just a guy out for a stroll in his bathrobe. Anyone would have done what I did in the same situation.”
“Oh, no” Destiny protested. “You are special. And, one day with a little practice, practice, practice, you may learn to accept that you are my hero.”
Hero? Time for a stroll to the Carnegie Deli.
