A Lubbock Boy's Carriage ride in New York City

  

A cabriolet similar to the one Charlotte and I rode through Central Park--different horse, different driver, but Springtime in New York.

                                                                                    

     Charlotte and I walked in the warm spring sunshine across Fifth Avenue from the Plaza toward the lone Hansom Cab waiting at the curb on East 59^th Street.  Charlotte had spent the day behind the Red Door at the Elizabeth Arden Salon and looked fantastic in a form-fitting silk dress.  I finished my meeting early so we could ride a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park before we went to dinner.  After her full treatment at the spa—mud bath, massage, make-up, the works—I wanted to show off the knock-out-good-looking mother of my children.

     “Say there, young feller, how much for a ride around Central Park?  We’re tourists up here and want to see ever’ thang we can.  You charge by the mile or by the hour?”  I asked, with my best Texas drawl.  I discovered that Texans were given preferential treatment by most New Yorkers. Either they liked our accents or thought we were all very rich.

     “We charge by time, fifteen dollars for every fifteen minutes or portion thereof, or fifty dollars per hour.  I can get you through the park in thirty minutes,” the twenty-something, clean-cut young man answered with his memorized spiel.  He was a good-looking kid, wearing starched khaki trousers, white oxford-cloth button-down shirt open at the neck, spit-shined cordovan penny loafers and a completely out-of-place old, thick, dark green top hat.

     “Hell son, I didn’t want to buy that horse and wagon, just rent it for a while.  You reckon we could work out a better deal—what if I rented that rig for, say, two hours?” 

      Charlotte flashed a frown at me.  She hated it when I haggled.  It embarrassed her--she thought it degrading.

      The young man was sharp—he saw through my poor-boy act and knew we were going to make a deal.  He grinned.  “Oh, I can’t do that, sir.  It’s a hundred dollars for two hours and the company won’t let me charge any less.  I can do this—I get off at six-thirty, and I usually lose a little time waiting for a fare, so I’ll drive you around the city until then for a hundred bucks.  By the way, my name is Ronnie Fletcher, and the horse is named Dick.  He-he.  Funny name for a horse.”  He stuck out his hand, knowing if I shook it we had a deal.  I laughed and we shook hands.

     “I’m Jim McLaughlin, Ronnie, just call me Mac.   Meet my wife, Charlotte.”  I turned to her.  “Jump in, Sugar.  Ron here is gonna show us the town.  He’s all heart.  Gave us a big discount.”

       Ronnie laughed as I helped Charlotte into the forward-facing seat and climbed in next to her.  He climbed up to the driver’s platform and grinned again as I looked at my watch.  It was four-twenty-two.  The best I could tell, the generous young man was giving us eight free minutes.

     The carriage was technically not a Hansom Cab, but a one horse, four-wheeled cabriolet now common in New York City, painted white too long ago, with a high driver’s seat up high in front and two red vinyl passenger seats facing each other in the lower back section.  The dappled gray horse, Dick, was old, well-groomed, and apparently well-fed, with sleepy, but intelligent, eyes.  He welcomed us by taking a two-gallon leak on the pavement.

    “Are you from Texas?” Ron asked, as he leaned down toward us from his elevated seat.  “I’ll be going to Texas tomorrow.”

     “As a matter of fact, we’re from Houston.  Why you going to Texas, Ronnie?”

     “I have a job down there, with Texas Instruments, in Sugarland.  I graduated from New York University at 11:00 this morning, and start to work in Texas on Monday.  I have to pack the rest of my things tonight after work.  I’m working this one last shift because I need the money.”

     “Hell, this calls for a celebration.  If you can find a liquor store, I’ll buy the Champagne.  It’s not like they can fire you for drinking on the job at this late date.”

     Ronnie clucked at the horse and tugged the reins.  Dick did a u-turn, threading his way back across Fifth Avenue, between the Plaza and Central Park.  When I raised an eyebrow, Ron leaned down and winked.  “The cops don’t bother us much—they think we’re quaint.”  

     Dick didn’t need any help—stopped at the red light and clopped forward when it turned green.   Ronnie leaned down again.  In a conspiratory tone, he said, “I’ve already been celebrating with some friends since graduation.  I know a liquor store right around the corner on Avenue of the Americas.  We’ll stop there.”

     Ole Dick halted the carriage in front of the store and I went inside, bought two bottles of cold Champagne and a package of plastic cups.  I popped the cork on one of the bottles, passed around the cups, poured the bubbly, and we toasted Texas Instruments.

     As we rode through Central Park, Ronnie turned around to face us and let Ole Dick worry about the traffic.  “Ole Dick don’t need my help, unless we’re going somewhere off the beaten path.  I call him Big Dick, he-he.  Funny name for a horse. He knows the city better than I do.  If I don’t watch him, he’ll just naturally head back to the stables.  He’s ready to quit and get to the feed bag any time.”

     We toasted New York University. We toasted Texas. We toasted Sam Houston. We toasted the Tavern on the Green as we passed.  We toasted the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.  We toasted Yoko Ono.  We stopped and bought more Champagne.  We toasted John Hinckley.  I pointed out that Hinckley shot Reagan, not Lennon, but no one cared.   We toasted Jody Foster.

     It was dark when we passed the Shubert Theater on 44th, and I noticed it was almost seven o’clock.  “You think we ought to head to the house, Ronnie-Boy?  You want to join Charlotte and me for dinner?  We’d love to have you.  We’re going to a little place on 55^th street called L‘escargot.  Charlotte likes to eat snails.”

     “Oh my no, it’s late.  I better get back to the stable.”  Ronnie, slurring his speech, had slowed down considerably from his earlier pace.  He seemed to be in a stupor.  He faced forward now and was not talking much.  We headed toward Fifth Avenue, but traffic was heavy and Ole Dick stopped behind a row of cars waiting to turn left.

     As we waited, I said something to Charlotte and looked up in time to see Ronnie keel over sideways and fall off the high seat down into the street.  His green top hat crumpled under his head as it hit the pavement.  He sprawled there, in the middle of the street, out cold.

     I jumped out of the carriage and knelt beside Ronnie.  A burley fellow in a leather jacket and a yellow cab hat appeared and squatted next to us.  With a Flatbush accent straight from the movies, he said, “Did youse see dat sumbitch?  He did a high dive from way up dere.  Youse see dat sumbitch?  Is he all rite?  Damn. Youse tink he had a heart attack or sumthin?” 

    “Naw, he didn’t have a heart attack.  He’s just drunk.  I don’t think he broke anything.”  I checked Ronnie’s limbs as I spoke.  The hat protected his head when he landed, and so far as I could tell, he didn’t have a scratch.

     “Dat ‘splains it.  If he’d a been sober, he’d a broke his damn fool neck.  Drunks are just natchally loose.  Damn. Did youse see dat sumbitch?  Did a timber job from way up dere.”    

     I shook Ronnie and he opened his eyes, blinked momentarily, and shut them.  “Come on Ron, let us help you up—are you ok?  Break anything?”

    The Brooklyn cabbie helped me get Ronnie to his feet and guide him to the carriage.  Ron stumbled into the vinyl seat, next to the empty champagne bottles, and slumped down.  His eyes opened and he looked up with a crooked grin.  “I think I ought to get at least a 9.7 for that dive,” he said and closed his eyes.  Ronnie was fine.

     Charlotte was not in her seat.  After a moment of panic, I saw her, standing prettily next to Ole Dick, holding the bridle.  She took care of the horse while we attended Ronnie.

     “How youse gonna get dat horse back home?  What’s gonna happen to dat guy?  Youse tink he’s gonna be ok?”  The cabbie, a gruff New Yorker, was sympathetic and  genuinely concerned.  Except for the accent, he could have been from West Texas.

     “Ever thangs gonna be fine.  I’ll drive the horse back to the hotel and Charlotte will take care of Ronnie.  Thanks for the help.  You reckon you ought to shut the door on your cab before someone knocks it off?”

      The cabbie suddenly realized his cab was idling with the front door wide open in the middle of 44^th street.  I climbed up to the driver’s platform and Charlotte eased into the seat next to Ronnie.  When she settled, I popped the reins and Dick started toward the Plaza.

     Ole Dick eased up to the curb on 59^th street, almost exactly where he’d answered nature’s call earlier.  I shook Ronnie as Charlotte stepped out of the carriage.  Ronnie was snoring and not about to wake up.  I folded two hundred dollar bills around one of my business cards and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.  “You ok, Ron?  I put some money in your pocket—you ok?”

     Ronnie stirred, patted his shirt pocket, returned to the fetal position and resumed snoring.  I slapped Ole Dick, he-he, on the butt and he clomped off toward the wagon yard.

    Charlotte and I walked the four blocks to L‘escargot and enjoyed icy cold Plymouth Gin Martinis and escargot sizzling in garlic butter, then a hunk of tenderloin smothered in Marchand de Vin sauce.  I just love New York.

View of Centrak Park looking north over the buildings from about 55th Street