“You can’t have a heart attack here, it’s bad for business!”
I practically yelled at the man who had just struggled up the stairs from the church basement carrying one end of a water cooler he purchased at my church’s yard sale (yes Long Islanders have yard sales too…they just think their junk is worth 95% of its’ original value six years and three kids later).
I was on the other end of the cooler and uncharacteristically heaving most of the weight. By the time we made it to the top of the steps, I realized that this man was in seriously bad shape and I don’t just mean muscularly for a fifty-something.
So, in my naturally compassionate way, I asked, “What’s wrong with you? Are you ok?”
That’s when he told me he’d recently (looked like it could’ve been yesterday to me) had a heart attack. My mind immediately filled with scenarios in which I was calling 911, trying to give someone CPR, and panicking. I ran back downstairs to get him a glass of water (ironic that he was carrying a water cooler) and he followed. By the time he’d reached the bottom step, the “mother hens” had a chair ready for him; they must have heard me kindly telling him not to have a heart attack on church premises.
Oddly enough, this heart attack victim wasn’t shopping alone. His lovely, unconcerned wife was with him sifting through half-used packages of last year’s Christmas cards selling for a quarter a box. She merely glanced up at the scene unfolding in which the “mother hens” were giving all sorts of medical and non-medical advice and went back to browsing.
I looked to the wife and then locked eyes with one of the hens; she muttered “That women must have a good insurance policy on him.”
I did get the water cooler into the trunk of his car, but still wonder if he managed to haul it out and into his kitchen before having a coronary. In case you think this story of Long Island Love may be a tad exaggerated (not that I’m known to elaborate on stories, nor am I an overly excitable person), read this next segment entitled Deli Love.
“He’s got so much money; I could be ready to remarry. ”
After overhearing this comment in the deli line and deli lines in NY can be quite a wait because we NYers certainly like our cold cuts, preferably “Boars Head” brand, I had to tune into the love saga unfolding with each slice of bologna being cut. Turns out this middle aged, recently divorced, Long Island spaster (that’s what I call women who spend more time at the spa than at home or work) got more than half in the last divorce settlement. She then went online (like all modern money seekers, oh sorry, I meant love seekers) and managed to meet a nice country boy who’d come into LARGE amounts of cash after an on the job brain injury.
Poor boy, I was thinking, but the brain injury is really the least of his problems. The attractive woman standing in front of me would be much more lethal than a mere brain injury. It seems this nice fellow just endured the stench of a hot, crowded bus to NY (he couldn’t manage to get a plane ticket to NY, even with all his money…must’ve been the brain injury) just to visit his new-found girlfriend.
Well, the bologna was cut and to wrap-up her love story, she mentioned how “with the brain injury and all, well, one good fall and…”
That’s when I realized how lucky I am not to have money. Check back to read more Long Island Love Stories.