Birthday 21

Yes, my birthday is near. No, I'm not 21 and certainly NOT 4ever 21, but I DO remember my 21st birthday. Not the exact day, but a few days or weeks later when one of my dad's best friends (Tony) and his wife (Mary) took me out to celebrate. 

This was not my favorite birthday--that was during a summer I was acting at the Renaissance Faire and my friends gave me an old-fashioned birthday party. But #21 was the craziest one.

What does that mean? My father had a best friend named Tony, who was married to a tiny lady named Mary. They were both great friends and I adored them, BUT. Tony kept insisting to my mom that he and Mary HAD to take me out when I turned 21, and because Tony was one of our nearest and dearest, I had to say yes. So the day came, they honked the car, and I went out and got inside. You can understand the very last thing a 21 year old wants is to go out with an older couple her parents' age on her birthday. Right?

The first stop was an Italian restaurant of the kind New York is famous for; huge plates the size of Cleveland and waiters who know your name and sing happy birthday off-key while you blow out the candles. Everyone there seemed to know Tony and Mary and they were super-excited to see him and meet me, while I wanted just to sink into the floor instead of deal with all the attention.

Tony encouraged me to drink, and that seemed like an excellent idea, so I had a range of cocktails, each one weirder than the last, until nothing mattered any more. Drinks with umbrellas. Pina Coladas, Black Russians. White Russians and maybe green ones, too.  I sipped some wine at dinner and was perfectly happy to share a lasagna with Mary and some other main dish I can't remember.

Next stop was an ice cream palace, and then after that a bar and then another bar with comedians and singers, one after another, and at this point I began to feel an irresistible nausea climbing into my throat. I told Mary, who accompanied me to the restroom (to my everlasting embarrassment). I have to say though, I think in a way it made Tony proud that he had initiated me into this 21-year-old ritual? I'll never know for sure, but that's my theory.

They got me home by four a.m., and I seem to recall my mother waiting up for me, the crowning humiliation at that point. I think Tony must have told her about my stomach adventures, as she asked about them the next day. 

The lesson? Don't mix drinks with dinner. Wine or whiskey is the best choice, just as long as you pick one or the other.

That episode turned out to be the first and last time I went out to dinner with Tony and Mary, though I loved them and always will, as long as I don't have to throw up with them on my birthday. And in fact, they aren't here any more, so I can't.

But I can't let you go without a little Tony history. He worked with my father in his appliance store (The Royal Mart) every Christmas. There were numerous stories growing up of burglars trying to steal appliances before they ran into Tony, who roughed them up until they ran away terrified. According to family legend, Tony made one of them pay for a used radio before he ran off.

I wish he was here now in fact, to chase off the burglar who kicked in our garage door.

Tony also used to tell Mary to help him unload the merchandise trucks, and my father howled to see her carrying huge boxes without a whimper. She likely weighed all of 106 pounds. 

I think Tony and my dad's other best friend Ziggy were the kind of men you'd see in a James Cagney movie (only bigger than he was), and though neither could sing they seemed to be able to do everything else Cagney did. Remembering them now, I decided such friendships are worth the price of going out for your 21st birthday-- whether you want to or not. 

At the very least, it's a good story. 

21st Birthday Photo: Constanza