By THE ACTRESS
Yutzi’s son Robbie invited me to weekend with his theater troupe in Boston. Let me tell you those kids could learn a thing or two about acting from someone of my talent and ability. But do they ever ask? Of course not. Did I ever tell you about my time with James Dean? Well, I won’t because I’m a lady.
But I must say, I was so very excited for a real New England clambake. Finally, cultivated people, fresh brewed iced tea, and Nantucket at nightfall. But no, Robbie, that scalawag, spirited me away to a lobster pound in Seabrook, NH and instead of an acting troupe, my companions were none other than his outré father Yutzi and his crony, Wolf.
As we walked to the train station, Robbie assured me the food was top notch at Brown’s Lobster Pound. Lobster Pound? Was this one of those Jewish delis? I thought only the gentiles were allowed to vacation in New England? But it gets worse. The lobster pound is one mile away from a nuclear power plant. “Not to worry,” said Robbie, while I gagged on the thought of air redolent of low tide and low people, “if there is a meltdown we can take solace in the fact that our last meal was spent with splendid company.” I listened then slapped him across the face.
We finally reached the station. Could someone please tell me when the grand train stations of my youth were remade into public urinals? I forced Robbie to carry me across the puddles of ill-repute. He gingerly put me down in front of the coach class car. Coach? I was horrified and screamed at Robbie – You mean to tell me that we are not traveling first class! I was appalled. That brute had booked us in steerage. I was forced to sit amongst the commoners in poly-blend suits, ripped jeans and some ghastly, shapeless footwear that Robbie said was all the rage: UGG Boots. These vagrants looked like homeless Eskimos.
Meanwhile, Wolf and Yutzi’s perfume of Ivory soap, Old Spice, and stale jokes brought on a sudden bout of nausea. I begged Robbie to escort me to the dining car. With one hand in Robbie’s and the other clutching my purse to my chest in case one of these cretins decided to push me into the bathroom and give me a Frank Sinatra, I told Robbie, who is really a sissy-boy, to light a fire under his tight trousers and get a move on.
Once we reached the dining car I was forced to rest from the physical and mental exhaustion of the one car walk. I ordered Robbie to fetch me a packet of saltines, but he returned with a hot dog. A hot dog? What am I, six years old? Is this a baseball contest? I surveyed the menu in dismay. Did the stock market crash again? Where was the champagne? Where were the waiters? My choices were limited to deli sandwiches, chips, soda, and coffee. I waved away the menu, took the hot dog to use as a weapon and proceeded back to my seat while Robbie stayed to flirt with the help.
Oh, wait. I was supposed to review the lobster pound. That will just have to wait until next week.
Amtrak Northeast Regional, Penn Station, 393 7th Ave., New York, NY