The Extinction of the Dinosaur (Nuggets)
I was over in New Jersey again, recently, guilty as charged, and this time the occasion of my visit was the Easter Sunday Holiday. My story begins the Saturday afternoon before the Easter Sunday Holiday when I was trying my very best to make the 4:10pm New Jersey Transit train out of Penn Station. I was trying my very best, I tell you, but, as Cuomo’s MTA would have it, the Express was running Local (it was a Saturday), there were signal malfunctions and sick passengers and, truth be told, I had spent a liiiiiiiittle too much time lolly gagging out in Brooklyn before I went to catch the train (I was talkin’ politics! I couldn’t stop talkin’ politics! I got carried away!). Before I knew it, the clock had struck 4:00pm, I was on a stopped train downtown nowhere close to Penn Station and it became very clear that I would have to resort to alternative measures of transportation to make it over to my sister’s house in River Edge, New Jersey to visit them for the Easter Sunday Holiday just a few weeks ago.
No matter. I could find alternative ways to get to New Jersey. I take pride in finding alternative ways to do things. I’m off beat, man, and pretty resourceful, you know, when the old rubber meets the road. Or when the road meets the old train tracks. Or when the old train tracks meet Cuomo’s budget meets the malfunctioning train signal meets a sick passenger meets my inability to stop “talkin’ politics” at 3 o’clock on the Saturday before Easter…or whatever. You get my drift. I tell you all this to let you know that I’m equipped to think on my feet, damn it, and to take what’s in front of me. I fashion myself as a kind of Hipster Houdini.
And so I adjusted. I took the A train uptown to 168th near the GW Bridge, walked the few blocks to the brand new George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal (praise be to the Port Authority of New York/ New Jersey! It looks great!), unloaded six dollars cash from my pocket and boarded a “Jitney” bus which would take me along Route 4 to River Edge.
After I boarded the bus, I sat in the second to last row on the right next to the window and as the small, crowded vehicle hummed and bumped along the roadway. I heard the crinkle of plastic wrapping on a bouquet of flowers. The person sitting next to me was going somewhere for the Easter Holiday, too, it seemed, and they were bearing floral gifts. I was not bearing floral gifts. Or any gifts, for that matter. I had meant to bear gifts, but I had forgotten them.
“Shit!” I thought to myself as we rolled past Teaneck, “I’ve forgotten the Easter cake pops I got for my nieces! How could I forget the Easter cake pops I got for my nieces!? Talkin’ politics, again, Dave, and lost track of the time, that’s how you forgot, you bonehead!” I said to myself, slightly wincing at the shouting back and forth going on in my head as I looked out the smudged window at the Shopping Mall Sprawl of the Garden State.
No matter. I could adjust. I’ll just bring myself. Houdini.
I arrived in River Edge, New Jersey around 5:20pm, about the time the train would have arrived had I caught it, and was greeted by my two nieces, three and a half years old and fifteen months. They are adorbs, in case you were wondering, and when I showed up on that Saturday before the Easter Sunday Holiday, they went bananas.
“Uncle Dave! Uncle Dave!! Uncle Dave!!!” the three and a half year old said as her little body ran to me and mobbed me, throwing all the force she could muster onto my person as I swept her into my arms and planted a big kiss on her rosy cheek. The other niece, unsure of who I am exactly but aware enough to recognize a commotion when one comes along, waved her arms up and down frantically and flashed a smile that revealed her newly arrived, Chiclet teeth. I gave her a kiss too, on her soft, sweet smelling head in a moment fitting a Johnson & Johnson advertisement. Then I hugged my sister and brother in law in a more measured, “adult” way- more stilted in the approach, two pats on the back, not too much, not too little.
“Dave,” my sister then declared, “Hop in the car! We’re going to Chipotle for dinner.”
“Yaaaaaaaay!” me and the three and a half year old screamed, as the baby kept flapping her arms up and down. I screamed less out of an enthusiasm for Chipotle and more because, like the children, I love a commotion as well.
The five of us squished in in car and headed down the Turnpike.
At the Chipotle, we sat near the window as the evening sun reflected off the windshields of the cars in the Paramus Parking Lot. Me and my nieces ate quesadillas, while my sister and her husband opted for a no-carb burrito. They’re on a no-carb, no sugar diet and they bothlook great, in case you were wondering.
We finished our meal around 6:00pm, cleaned our hands and mouths and hair from the Chipotle headed home. We finished our meal around 6:00pm, I repeat, it was around 6:00pm when we took our last bites of Chipotle.
***
Our story picks up at around 11:00pm, maybe 11:30pm that very same night, at least five, maybe five and half hours from the last time we ate. I was alone, in the basement of my sister’s River Edge, New Jersey home and I was very, very hungry. Like the Jitney on Route 4, my stomach was rumbling and tumbling inside me something fierce. I had had some wine and whiskey earlier while we were putting fake plastic grass (which can’t be good for the environment) and fake plastic eggs (which also cannot be good for the environment) and the measly Chipotle quesadilla was no match for the strength of those drinks.
I had to eat.
I climbed the stairs to the kitchen and threw open the freezer. It was then I saw the object of my desire. There they were before me- a holy grail- under the fluorescent freezer light : Dinosaur Chicken Nuggets. Or Dino nuggets, for short.
“Were those nuggets my own personal Jesus? My personal salvation in this moment?” I thought to myself- a stretch, I’ll admit, but it felt that way.
“Was this freezer in front of me the tomb? Could I, perhaps, smuggle out those little Dino Messiahs from the tomb on the Saturday night before the Easter Sunday Holiday, eat them, and escape un-noticed by the guards? Yes! I’m pretty sure I could! After all, it is the Easter Holiday and one thing the Easter Holiday teaches us is that miracles are indeed possible and so, yes, not only am I pretty sure I could sneak these nuggets, but I’m sure that I should sneak them. I’m pretty sure that it’s theologically sound for me to sneak them. I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would want me to do, in fact.”
With all the certainty of the Pope, I reached in for one handful of Dino Nuggets and put them on an empty plate.
I surveyed the situation.
Hmmmmmmm.
There were not nearly enough nuggets to satisfy me.
I would have to go in for a second handful of Dino Nuggets.
Yes. A second handful is in order here.
I went for the second handful.
I laid out those beautiful, golden brown creatures on the ceramic plate- a stegosaurus here, a T-Rex there, and, would you look at that, a couple triceratops over there. Oh, how the stegosaurus would sate me! Oh, how I would enjoy eating the bulbous head of the T-Rex! Oh, how I would delight in biting off each triceratops horn, making them all extinct!
Nom nom nom!
Nom nom nom!
NOM NOM NOM!
As the microwave hummed, I watched the timer closely, making sure to open the doors just before the “ding”. It was almost midnight and the last thing I would want to do would be to “wake the guards”. That would be a grave mistake on this Saturday before the Easter Sunday Holiday. There was too much at stake for mindless errors.
When the nuggets were done, I cleared a few steaming hot Dinosaurs out of the way to make room for a healthy splattering of Heinz Tomato Ketchup, making sure not to make too much noise squeezing the bottle. As I went to put the bag of nuggets back in the box, I noticed the damage: there was one nugget left. A bunch of crumbs. And one nugget.
No matter.
I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
By the time the missing nuggets were discovered, I would be long gone.
Back in Brooklyn.
Hipster Houdini.
I put the nearly empty bag back in the freezer and headed back down stairs, hot plate firmly in hand.
I slept soundly that night, as soundly as I had perhaps since the Thanksgiving holiday- a bellyful of bird. There was a plate of crumbs and dried Heinz Tomato Ketchup stashed under the bed beneath me, firmly out of view.
***
After the church service on the Easter Sunday Holiday, all the preparations were being made for lunch. There was company now- another family of four and a set of grandparents- and the kitchen was bustling with bodies. My brother in law- an excellent cook- was carefully preparing lamb to eat, my sister was distributing Bloody Marys for everyone who wanted them (I did) while the children (four total now) ran around the house, high off morning chocolate, no doubt. I decided to sit down with the set of grandparents.
“Hey, I’m David,” I offered. “But you can call me Dave. Around here I’m known as Uncle Dave.”
“Mark,” the grandfather replied, offering me his hand. “But around here they call me ‘The Commodore’ cause I drive boats.”
“Well hello there, Commodore,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been around a Commodore before. ”
“Well there’s a first time for everything, Dave.” he said playfully (I thought).
“Well, then, ay, ay Captain!” I said, doing a fake salute.
“It’s Commodore, Dave. I’m a Commodore. Commodore’s different than a Captain. Higher rank.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I said.
“That’s alright, Dave. You’ll learn.” he said. “You’ll learn, Uncle Dave.”
“And I’m Shirley,” said the grandmother, delicately offering me her hand (was she expecting me to kiss it?) a distinct twang in her voice.
“My, my. What a twang you’ve got in your voice,” I noted aloud.
“Well, Dave, I am, in fact, originally from the great state of Texas and you can bet your top and bottom dollar on that,” Shirley replied, a proud peacock displaying her plumes.
“I’ve always loved Texans. They’re just so, so, so-,“ I grasped for the words.
“Bawdy?” said Shirley.
“Sure, maybe that’s the word,” I said, taking another sip of my Bloody Mary and mentally preparing to ask a question about the weather in Dallas.
***
Twenty minutes later found Shirley, the Commodore and myself all semi-awkwardly standing in a semi-circle in the kitchen, semi- hovering over my brother in law- who is a very good cook- in his final stages of of meal preparation.
The children, four of them in total, were in the process of being wrangled to sit down at the kitchen table.
“Ok, Ok,” my sister said, her eyes tracking the darting children, the exhaustion of a mother of two slightly distinguishable in her voice, “let’s get the kids something to eat. I think we’ve got nuggets-“
“Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm, Rachel?-” I said.
“Let’s see,” she continued crossing over to the freezer and putting her hand on the handle to open it.
“Ummmmmmmmm, Rachel?” I said again.
She turned around and looked at me.
“About those nuggets-“
Her eyes remained on me and she knew all she needed to know: Uncle Dave had eaten the nuggets. Full disclosure, it was not the first time I had “eaten the nuggets” so to speak (there was a separate incident in which I ate an entire box of Trader Joe’s Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream sandwiches).
“You ate the nuggets, didn’t you.”
I nodded sheepishly.
“Oh, Dave.” she replied, immediately moving on to alternate measures, “Ok. No nuggets! Let’s see, I think we have some meatballs…”
My brother in law, who is a very good cook and at this point was very busy nearing the completion of his Easter Sunday masterpiece, caught wind of my transgressions and was not quite as understanding (and rightfully so):
“Aw Dave, you ate the nuggets, Dave?!”
“Now, calm down,” I said, defenses up, Houdini instinct kicking in.
“I’m not gonna calm down! You ate my children’s food!”
“Chill, man. Just relax.”
“No! I’m not going to relax! You ate my kids’ Dino nuggets! Think, Dave! Think!”
“Ok, ok! I’ll think next time.” I said, knowing he had a point, trying desperately to calm the situation.
When it seemed the storm had passed, I heard a distinctly Texan voice chime in. It was Shirley.
“Daaaaave,” she said. Twang full blast.
“Yes?”
“Did you eat those Dino nuggets, Dave?”
“Yes.”
“Was that a smart thing to do, Dave?”
“No.”
“Was that a mature or thoughtful thing to do, Dave?”
“Nope.”
“Is that behavior befitting of a- what are you- thirty year old man?”
“Thirty two.”
“Even better, a thirty two year old man” she said.
“I was, I was-“ I raised my voice in protest.
She took her pointer finger, adorned in purple pastel nail polish (for the Easter Sunday holiday, I assume), placed it firmly over her lip in a ‘shush’ gesture, and delivered the final blow to my case.
It was a Texas-style execution.
“Quiet, Daaaave! You ate the nuggets and you’ve been found out. You’re embarrassed. You shouldn’t have eaten the nuggets and you know it. Nuggets are children’s food, anyways. What does a thirty two year old want with a chicken nugget? So just don’t eat the nuggets, Dave. Next time, don’t even think about going for the nuggets.”
***
I stayed mostly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. In addition to swallowing those nuggets, I had been forced to swallow my pride. I also swallowed the lamb that my brother in law, who is a very good cook, had prepared. It was succulent and delicious.
As I rode through New Jersey eastbound on Route 4 later that afternoon on my way back to Brooklyn- past the endless parking lots and diners and shopping malls, Bloody Mary’s still very much in my system and Bruce Springsteen’s hits playing just barely in my mind- I reflected on the events of the past 24 hours and thought quietly to myself:
“I think it might be time I became a vegan.”
