John Delach

“For crying out loud, Dave,” I yelled, “What is in your head? Are you nuts? You’re 50 years old and you don’t have another job.”

Dave never made things easy. Not for him and not for me. Unhappy with his raise and the lack of a promotion, he waited until I was vacationing in California to offer his resignation to the one person who despised him, my boss, Bob Nevers. When Dave offered Nevers his formal resignation, Nevers accepted it without hesitation. By the time I returned from vacation, it was too late to reverse this insanity.

When I asked him why? He said nothing, but looked at me with “a thousand-yard stare.” The enormity of what he had done was sinking in. Moving quickly to perform damage control, I convinced Nevers to keep Dave on the payroll for at least three months and provide him with an office on another floor with secretarial services.

“Dave, your job now is to find another job.”

Relieved, he set about his task and, within two months, found a good position at another firm. When he told me, I was both pleased and relieved and I proposed having lunch to celebrate his good fortune. We set a date and I added: “Why don’t you bring in your company car and I will drive it home so it can be reassigned?”

He agreed and we had a delightful lunch discussing past times and future hopes. Toward the end, he handed me the keys and the garage receipt and said: “You do know how to drive stick shift?”

“Yeah right,” I replied thinking he was putting me on. He heard, “Of course I can.”

It was shortly after 6 PM when I arrived at the Kinney Garage on 48^th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, paid the charges and waited for the Honda to be delivered. Tipping the attendant as he opened the door, I sat down and stared at the clutch and shift.

“Holy shit”,  I exclaimed out loud as I sat there cursing myself for getting into this dilemma.

The last time I attempted to conquer stick shift was courtesy of Uncle Sam in a U.S. Army jeep 25 years ago. And here I am in the middle of Manhattan during rush hour wondering what to do. Prudence dictated getting out and having an attendant park it again. Unfortunately, prudence is not my M.O. as I repeated the words of Admiral Farragut at the battle of Mobil Bay to myself, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

Conjuring up my rudimentary skills, I managed to leave the garage and head east to Park Avenue successfully shifting between first and second gears at various red lights and actually getting the Honda into third gear on one occasion. I decided not to risk breaking down in the Queens Midtown Tunnel so I headed north on Park Avenue towards the 59^th Street Bridge. At 53^rd Street trouble finally struck as I popped the clutch and stalled again and again, missing two green light cycles. Taxi drivers were unmerciful-their honking bringing me to a near panic sweat, but with several deep breaths, I got the car moving again.

East on 58^th Street, up onto the bridge’s upper deck, I hit stop and go traffic. Touch and go, stalling, coaxing, praying, cursing, taking deep breathes, “stay calm” became my mantra. Finally, I left the bridge as I tried to ignore the dirty looks from those cars I held up.

I headed south on Queens Boulevard to the Long Island Expressway (LIE) where I turned east struggling past Flushing Meadows Park. The expressway traffic was too much for me so I decided the service road was my best bet. If I lose it, I can leave it by parking it there. So far so good, but as I passed Springfield Boulevard, I anticipated the steep hill that leads to the light at the Douglaston Parkway intersection.

“Oh God, if it is red, I will never get this car going again. To hell with it, I am not stopping if I can avoid it,” As I approached the intersection, the light was green and I exclaimed,  “Thank you Lord”!

 From there it became easier and as I headed north towards Port Washington and home, I actually manage to put the Honda into fourth gear for the first and only time.

Safely home, I poured myself a large Jameson’s as I recounted my adventure to, Mary Ann, my wife. Mary Ann grew up with stick-shift cars and she occasionally drove the Honda to her school, PS 121, in South Ozone Park, Queens.

Eventually the Honda was re-assigned to Alan Gardiner who was rewarded by several years of good service once he replaced the transmission that I had ruined. I made sure our firm paid for the damage I had incurred.

On the Outside Looking In will not be published next Wednesday, May 27th

The front page of the May 7 edition of The New York Times included a story with this title that was set out entirely below the fold. Written by Julie Bosman, I present it to you:

CHICAGO-Even the Vicar of Christ can be thwarted by a customer service representative.

About two months after Robert Francis Prevost, a Chicago-born cardinal became Pope Leo XIV in Vatican City, he put in his call to his bank back home, a close friend, the Rev. Tom McCarthy, told a gathering of Catholics in Naperville, Ill., last week.

The new pope identified himself as Robert Prevorst, saying that he wished to change the phone number and the address that the bank had on file, Father McCarthy said.

 The pope dutifully answered the security questions correctly.

Then, the woman on the line for the bank told him that it wasn’t enough – he would have to come to the bank in person.

“He said, ‘Well, I’m not going to be able to do that,’ “ Father McCarthy said in a video clip shared on social media, recounting the new pope’s growing frustrations as the audience laughed.

“I gave you all the security questions.”

The bank employee apologized. The pope tried a different tack.

“Would it matter to you if I told you I’m Pope Leo?” he asked , according to Father McCarthy.

She hung up.

Even while more than one billion Catholics around the world and living in gilded spender amid priceless works of art, popes can sometimes be entangled in the mundane, both, accidentally and with purpose. In the first 24 hours of Pope Francis’ papacy in 2013, he insisted on paying his own hotel bill and collecting his own luggage, a gesture of humility to Catholic clergy.

Pope Leo rose from modest roots in Dolton, Ill., a small suburb just outside Chicago, before serving as a bishop in Peru and in an influential post at the Vatican where he was elected pope nearly one year ago.

The matter was sorted out thanks to the intervention of another priest who had a connection to the bank president, Father McCarthy said.

There was no word on the customer service representative who had cut off her call with the bank’s most famous customer.

“Could you imagine being as the woman who hung up on the pope?” Father McCarthy said.   

I loved this joke, a joke I could tell whenever I wished that was totally suitable for mixed company.

The Joke:

After the pope died, the College of Cardinals assembled in Rome and voting began to elect his successor. It soon became evident that three cardinals were all viable candidates, but none of them could gain the needed majority of votes. After two months of black smoke following unsuccessful balloting, morale became desperate. The senior cardinals decided that a select committee would interview the three candidates, two of whom were American and one who was Polish.

First up was Cardinal Jones. He was asked, “What is the holiest day in the Church’s calendar?”

Jones replied, “Oh, the Fourth of July when we go to the beach and watch the fireworks.”

So much for Jones who was escorted out.

Cardinal Smith was next and he replied, “That would be Thanksgiving when we all get together and consume a mountain of food while watching football on TV.” Good bye Smith.

Last, was Cardinal Komorowiski: “Tell us cardinal, what is the holiest day in the Church’s calendar?

The cardinal replied, “Easter Sunday, of course.”

The relief among the committee was audible. “Yes, yes,” replied the chairman who then asked, “Why is it the holiest day?”

“Because that is the day that Christ rises from the dead, his guardian angel rolls back the stone. Jesus leaves his tomb, but, if he sees his own shadow, we have six more weeks of lent.”  

When My Joke Turned on Me

I was out one night at a business dinner with a group of twelve people that included wives. It was a joyous occasion where the wine and champaign flowed freely and people began telling their favorite stories. I carefully waited for a lull when I began telling my favorite joke confident that it would bring the house down.

When I reached the parts about Jones and Smith, the realization hit me square in the head that I was doomed. My joke was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it. I was so sure of myself and my story when I began that I had ignored a simple fact that doomed me: I was telling it at a dinner in London where nobody had ever heard about Ground Hog’s Day.