Yeah, I remember dear old Dad. He loved to play the horses…in fact, he loved to wager on anything. Problem was, he wagered TOO much and it cost him his life. Well, that’s another story for another day and another topic (perhaps, “My Father was a Bookie, what was yours?”).

Oh yeah, the story. One late August night, back in 1958, my father took me to a Yankees – Senators game at the stadium. For some reason, unknown to a 5 year old boy, he decided to pay for a taxi as the transportation to and from the Bronx (maybe the car was repossesed? We lived in Forest Hills, Queens). Anyway, I don’t recall too much about the game but I sure as hell recall what happened afterwards. The return taxi was summoned for the trip back home and some where along the line, maybe even towards the end of the game, it started raining…pouring…heavy! The cabbie wheeled the taxi into a gas station in order to refill the tank. I remember the back door opening and the water on the ground rising above my shoes. We raced/splashed/slid into the waiting room whilst the cab was re-fueled. My dad went off to another room…more than likely to use the pay phone to call…yup…his book.

So I waited. And waited. The rain as so thick, I could barely see out the window to the gas pumps straight ahead. Still waiting. Finally, an attendant came in and asked me whom I belonged to.

“My dad.” I replied. “And he’s in the taxi outside that’s getting gas.”

“There’s no taxi out there now,” said the attendant. I think I started crying but I was too traumatized to remember. Still am. Turns out, he left me there…plum forgot about me…probably pre-occupied with his wagering. I find out later, he had gone 3 or 4 blocks before the cabbie asked about his son. Well, they did come back for me so all’s well that ends well, right? Sure it is.