The luck of mary brown

[sd gross]

The Luck of Mary Brown
by Stephen D. Gross

I dreamt last night that Mary Brown had finally gotten married. She was 81-years-old, looking fresh and virginal in her "Uptown-It's-Alexander's" wedding gown. The muscular groom, a half-century her junior, beamed warmly at her as they stood beneath the Chuppa. "He must be Jewish", I reflected, looking up at the bough-covered canopy. I recalled that Mary wasn't - she was Irish-Catholic, and wore her heritage like a medal.
The big room looked familiar to me. My father, carrying a tray, walked softly by the door and I realized we were at Park Terrace Caterers. Dad worked there as a waiter. The old catering hall, which lay diagonally across the street from Yankee Stadium, reposed under the creaky Jerome Avenue El. I had been Bar-Mitzvahed, and cousin Cheryl had been married at the Park Terrace.
The young, tow-headed groom adjusted his yellow, satin yarmulke as it crept across the crest of his marine-length crewcut. He turned to acknowledge a relative with his engaging smile and I saw, with some degree of astonishment, that it was Yankee slugger, Mickey Mantle! The Mick, himself, standing at the altar with Mary Brown! I was stunned as a pneumatic charge blasted my brain and I slowly became aware of humid sheets and the garbage truck's air brakes braying over the Washington Heights dawn.
But the damage was done. My consciousness was soaked with images of my 3rd -Grade teacher, the longshoreman in Persian Lamb's clothing with Rita Hayworth hair, the fabled Mary Brown. She drove, each morning, to 'work' at P.S. 98 on Upper Broadway, all the way from her home in Yonkers' Sherwood Terrace.
Sheathed in white gloves rescued from Gimbels' basement, her hands gripped the steering wheel of her '46 Plymouth as if it was the helm of a clipper ship (like the one emblazoning the front of her old Plymouth). Our class was fascinated - actually, madly in love with her! Because we were always hungry for new adventure, we basked in the aura of imminent excitement and peril she moved in.
Attending her classes was always fun; we could hardly wait to hear what vital secrets she had to share with us. Never dull, her tales were always fascinating, and occasionally spellbinding She loved birds and adored the New York Yankees, orally dissecting them, and candidly commenting on how they were conducting themselves. She carried a silver hip flask of Jamieson's Irish around in the pocket of her Democratic cloth coat as a buffer against New York's frosty winters (and springs and autumns), and she loved to spread its warmth. Her salty speech caused many a cabby to blush but because we knew she could do no wrong, we quickly became used to her colorful language and loved her all the more for it.
One day we brought brown-bag lunches to school and were loaded into two dirty-yellow schoolbusses for a trip down to the American Museum of Natural History - One of the grandest places in the universe! A broad-shouldered, well-funded edifice, the castle-like institution fills two square blocks of prime real estate on Manhattan's West Side, and its impressive main entrance overlooks Central Park West. Embellishing the steps leading to its massive doors stands a gargantuan hood-ornament of a statue honoring one of the museum's founders and benefactors, Theodore Roosevelt.
Cast in copper, this dynamic statue rests on a Gibraltar-sized chunk of granite and looks heavy enough to tilt 81st Street. It depicts a robustly healthy Teddy astride an energetic stallion whose reins rest in the hands of an Iroquois or Algonquin Indian - to this day I'm not sure which. A testimony to challenge, adventure and exploration, the century-old sculpture has turned a gorgeous patina of green over its entire surface - except in one very conspicuous spot.
If you're the size of an average third-grader, and if you stand on the ninth step and get a boost from a large friend, you could manage to scramble up onto the stone pedestal. Once there, if you stand on your tippy toes and brace yourself against Teddy's right boot heel, you might be able to reach up and touch the stallion's watermelon-sized balls. In the tradition of generations of New York City school children (actually visitors came from everywhere), it was the custom to rub these formidable spheres for luck.
Recipients of a hundred years of studious polishing, the titanic testes shown with the brilliance of purest gold. Especially in contrast to the vast expanse of aged, green copper from which they hung. On even the rainiest of days they shimmered and pulsed like twin suns with a vigorous life of their own.
We talked about the statue's famous globes on the bus ride down - most of us had been there before and had seen them - and we looked forward to nailing down, in the spirit of tradition, a bit of good luck of our own. We spilled out of the bus rolling like a chattering tide up the grooved stone steps, and Peter Lufkin eagerly volunteered to be shine boy for the day. Gawky David Herzog donated his narrow shoulders and Peter climbed aboard. But no matter how he maneuvered, shimmied and clawed, Peter could not haul out onto the little stone mesa.
And then along came Mary Brown, taking her time, striding off the bus like the Queen of Scotland. Most teachers customarily jumped off the schoolbus first to make sure their charges didn't melt and fade into the breezy, dark hallways of the stately museum, but not Mary. She took a pull or two off her flask, (it was spring), and took her time, tucking it away in her pocket so as not to corrupt the children. We weren't going anywhere, yet, and she knew it. She was our peerless leader. Our Colonel. She set her own pace, and once we began our exploration of the museum, we liked to cruise with her and hear what she had to say. And here she came, marching toward us, warmed by a snort and ready for action!
She eyeballed Peter scraping and clawing his way up the vertical stone wall. She appraisingly measured the width of Herzog's shoulders. She squinted up into the blaze of the legendary twin orbs. We knew she loved us. We could tell she wanted us to be as lucky - luckier, even - than the legions of classes which had preceded us.
Of course the museum guards, and there were always several strewn about, were officially supposed to discourage kids from climbing on the statuary, but being civil service employees, they usually had their heads together in serious conversation about Important Stuff, (they had their priorities too), and didn't pay us much attention.
Nowadays guards at the museum are much more attentive. They're afraid someone will fall or impale themselves on a Swahili spear and sue. We Americans are much more litigious now than we used to be. That's what present-day guards guard against. In those days they mainly worried about keeping you from getting hurt. If you did, someone was liable to get on the boss about it and he would get angry with the guards. So they guarded mainly against placing themselves in a position where they would be the target of someone's anger. Now folks just sue their buns off!
One youngish guard stood at the top step, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. He saw Peter wasn't going to make it to the top which meant he wouldn't fall off and get hurt, so he drank his coffee and turned his attention to a woman getting off a schoolbus. She had a green kerchief with a picture of the Mountains of Kilkenny on it from under which hair shot like flames. Chin high, strong jaw set, she regally mounted the museum steps like she owned them. Forgetting his steaming cup of java, the guard stood and ogled Mary Brown.
He watched her as she strode past Teddy and his mighty steed - and then stopped. Her third-graders were trying to grab their piece of good luck. His coffee grew colder as he observed Mary get closer to the granite block and slowly stretch her body as high up as she could extend it. As she removed her sensible brown pumps, showing a masterfully lathed calf, his forgotten cigarette, with its four-inch ash, fell from his fingers.
When he finally realized what it was she was trying to do, he was first amazed and then amused. It wasn't long before he remembered what he was doing there at the museum, and realized he probably had to do something about it. That was his job. What he got paid for. If he saw stuff going on that wasn't permitted, he was expected to do something - if he saw it. She was really a kick, this red-head with the swagger. "I'll bet she's their teacher", he thought, "and she's goin' up there to polish old Seabiscuit's balls! This is one show I don't want to miss!"
Mary was sizing up the stone and attempting to get a grip in the smooth walls with her blood-red toenails. She saw the guards deep in conversation down by the street and was also aware of the guy with the chilly coffee who was trying to be cool up near the door. Then there was this bouncing herd of eight-year-old fireballs cheering her on. Her jaw was growing more set, signaling to us she was up to the challenge. Besides, she was never one to back down.
The guard was in a quandary - he wanted to watch Mary Brown twitch and wiggle herself around trying to scale that wall, but he didn't want to be seen seeing what was going on because he was committed to doing something about it, if he was. The two other guards were in a world of their own, still banging their heads together, so he thought about just turning his back to Mary and the statue and grabbing peeks of the action over his shoulder. But he was up at the top of the steps next to the big brass and glass doors, and if he turned his back he'd be facing the door, looking through it, into the main lobby of the museum. He could always look at the reflection in the door - but that was just a ghost of what was really going on.
Mary wasn't making much progress in pursuit of her noble quest. She was tough and determined, and "not badly put together for an old lady", most of us thought - she must have been thirty - but she wasn't particularly athletic. She ceased her attempted ascent and stood back to reassess the situation.
She'd seen the young guard surreptitiously scoping her out of the corner of one green eye. I have a feeling she noticed his vigilance when she first got off the schoolbus. But she knew he wasn't going to run over and arrest her, so her actions weren't affected by his attentiveness. She noticed, in fact, that as she increased her efforts, there was a proportionate rise in the guard's alertness.
She probably knew at that point that she wouldn't be able to attain the heights on her own, but her mind was quick and she had been working out a plan. Regrouping her energies and showing a little more knee than most of us had been privy to before, she writhed and scrambled around the "cliff" for a few seconds more.
Not wanting to miss any of this, the guard had given up trying to be cool, and was unabashedly taking it in with both eyes wide open. Unsuccessful as before, Mary gazed up at him fifty yards away on his top step, and unloaded a sweet smile of helplessness. Like a harpoon hurled straight and true, her missile found its mark. He was hooked and she reeled him in. He hesitated at first, thought it over for maybe two, three seconds weighing the consequences, and finally made up his mind. With a nervous peek at the grimacing, gesturing uniformed pair mutually involved near the street, the guard strode purposefully toward us.
As he got closer we could see his flushed face trying not to crack a grin. We speculated wildly among ourselves, later, as to what made his cheeks so rosy. Those of us close enough to hear heard him ask, "Can I give you a hand m'am?" There were those among us who had expected him to either whip out his handcuffs or deliver a stern lecture to Mary Brown, or both. We were relieved to see our Colonel wasn't going to be dragged off to the Gallows after all.
Mary was prepared with another disarming smile - she didn't even look a little embarrassed! - and she replied, "well, if you don't mind - just for the children?" Of course he didn't mind. He would do anything for the children. He could hardly wait! He stood next to the pedestal and locked his fingers together, palms up, forming a 'step' into which Mary could place her pump-less foot. He couldn't help but ogle this fragrant expanse of femininity rustling and grunting six inches in front of his russet face - until he saw the children curiously staring at him - at which point he averted his eyes.
Meanwhile Mary Brown stretched herself and pulled, got one knee up, and finally attained the summit. We loudly cheered as she pulled off her kerchief with the Mountains of Kilkenny and with a ceremonious sweep of her arm, did the deed. 'Seabiscuit's" brassy melons immediately seemed to sparkle with a new light. Like soft waves washing over the wintry morning, they rhythmically pulsed with a fresh glow all their own.
Beaming brightly, the chivalrous guard stood by like a man impervious to all danger - inoculated by his own goodness and immune to any misfortune. He helped Mary down and they exchanged a few words and smiles before he went back to his post at the top of the stairs and Mary herded us together and ushered us up the remaining steps and through the doors of the huge museum.
It was almost a month later, toward the end of April, the baseball season had begun and Ringling Brothers' circus posters were enjoining us to celebrate the Rites of Spring when we got a call from Mary Brown. We were having dinner when the phone rang, mom answering it and obviously enjoying the conversation. Mary Brown had tickets to the Yankees-Red Sox game at the Stadium the next day and wanted us to come to the ballpark with her and her friend. She and mom had become good pals and we'd gone with her to the ballyard on a few other occasions, so mom, pleased with her proposal, told her we'd love to come along.
We heard a car horn tooting at eleven the next morning and not wanting to keep Mary Brown waiting, we hustled downstairs and eagerly climbed into the back of her crusty Plymouth. She turned around so we could give her a couple of fat hugs and proudly introduced us to her new friend.
The face looked familiar, but somehow different. A few seconds later I realized it was because the last time I had seen its owner, he had his hat on - along with the rest of his Museum guard uniform. Her "date" for the ball game was, of course, Mr. Googly Eyes, the, gallant young man who had helped Mary climb the 'mountain' at the entrance to the Museum of Natural History.
The amazing Mary Brown had helped to overcome the shyness of the bashful admirer who had helped her 'polish' the celestial orbs that twinkled beneath Teddy Roosevelt's horse. Obviously it had been a collaboration which had proven to be extremely lucky for both the museum guard and the irrepressible Mary Brown!




["Mad" Miles]

How touching!