The Rockettes

As I was saying, it was shaping up to be a very busy Holiday Season. I got tickets for the two of us to go see the Christmas Spectacular. I thought I was being smart and got the tickets for the latest show available on a Friday night. The week before, we discussed whether or not Roc was going to come home first and we would take the train in together, or whether I was going to meet him there. The problem was the bag.
The Bag, you ask? Yes, the infinitesimal bag that became larger than life as the days wore on...I say this literally and figuratively, as the bag itself became filled with various pieces of equipment and things. As time went on, it bulged in his non-shooting hand, and soon felt like some sort of a third leg for Rocco.
This night in particular THE BAG was going to be a problem. In a post-9/11 world, they weren't exactly going to let you walk into a venue like Radio City Music Hall with a huge duffel bag in your hand, even if you were a NYC Police Recruit. So we decided he would come home, drop the bag, get changed, and we'd go back together.
Ah, but the NYPD had other ideas in mind. A few days before the show, Roc was informed that all the Recruits would have mandatory overtime beginning that Friday night. They were to make phone calls (think telemarketing) from the NYPD call center and ask various persons throughout the city about their recent interactions with the police.
Really?
When he dropped this particular bombshell to say I was livid would be an understatement. My eyebrows firmly knitted together, I informed Roc that he had to get out of this ridiculous attempt at politically correct survey-taking. There was NO WAY I was going to miss The Rockettes and their miles of legs---not to mention dancing Santas galore!--just so that he could appease the powers that be...I was going, with or without him.
To his credit, he did try and get out of it. He even called his friend, Lt. Mo, and asked him to make a call to the guy in charge of this so-called training. Lt. Mo happened to know that guy, and he said he would do everything in his power to see that Roc got out as early as possible, but no promises.
Roc told me to call and ask my Dad if he wanted to go with me. I hemmed and hawed and finally decided that I would chance it and hope for the best. We made a new plan: there would be no way that Roc could come home now, so I would drive into the city with a change of clothes for him. That would give him a way to store the bag, and then hopefully we would be in our seats by the time they dimmed the lights.
Let me just say this: I hate driving into the city. As a Native New Yorker, I almost always take the train, and from there the subways, or I walk all over once I get into the city proper. I'm just not interested in driving in tons of traffic, then trying to find parking, and/or paying an extraordinary amount to park like some godforsaken tourist.
I should have known then.