Who's the Bobblehead?

My girl went back to college yesterday. She's nineteen, and she boarded an airplane bound for La Guardia all by herself. Once she landed, she got into a taxi all alone and made her way back to her dorm on Third Avenue in New York City.

Now, I didn’t travel alone until I was thirty-five years old. So hugging her goodbye made me nervous and proud all at that same time.

“Be safe,” I whispered to her as I hugged her. I wanted to say, “Don’t talk to strangers,” but I knew she had to talk to the man who checked her bags, the stranger seated next to her on the airplane, and a cab driver.

And speaking of cab drivers, I knew better than to tell her not to accept a ride from a stranger. Not because that’s the nature of the beast when you’re getting into a New York City cab, though. I couldn’t tell her that because she and I both know I’m guilty of violating that rule.

Several years ago, I had a friend named Ty, a football player who was a little too small for the NFL. Ty signed a contract to play for the Philadelphia Soul, a team in the now-defunct arena football league that just happened to be owned by Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora.

“Ty,” I said to him one day in December 2004, “My girls and I were in New York City this past weekend. Tell your boss, Mr. Bon Jovi, that my girls went to Madame Tussaud’s but were unable to see his likeness. Apparently, he’s been fondled and kissed so much that he had to removed for refurbishing.”

“Why don't you tell him?” he responded. “Bon Jovi is kicking off the football season with a mini-concert doubling as a pep rally. I can get you front-row tickets, and I might even be able to get you backstage.”

Ty came through for me. In mid-January, Morgan and I flew to Philadelphia. We had a few hours that afternoon before the concert, so we did what all good tourists do. We took a cab to the corner of Ninth and Passyunk in South Philly and ordered a Philly Whiz at Geno’s. Across the street from Geno’s is its competitor, Pat’s, the restaurant credited with actually inventing the cheesesteak sandwich. The two have a long-standing rivalry, and each has its loyal fans who argue about which has the better product.

What we didn’t know when the cab dropped us off in front of Geno’s was that the establishment has no indoor seating. It was 17 degrees, and our hands were shaking as we inhaled our sandwiches.

After we finished our food, we began looking for a cab to take us back to the hotel. When it became obvious that we were going to have to call for a cab, I said, “While we wait, let’s go get a sandwich from Pat’s and judge for ourselves which one is better.” We marched across the street and ordered another Philly Whiz and we sat down outside to eat that sandwich.

We must have stuck out in our overcoats suited more for a winter in Georgia than one anywhere north of, say, Chattanooga. As we waited for the cab that obviously was not going to show up, a short, skinny man wearing thick glasses, a black overcoat, and a plaid wool scarf got out of a car and approached us. “I been watching from my car. I see that you’s freezin’, and I can’t watch ladies freeze like that. If you’ll pay me money for gas, I’ll take you anywhere you needs to go,” he said to me.

“No, thanks,” I quickly responded.

“Lady, look, it’s 17 damn degrees out here, and your kid’s cold. I’m a good, honest man who can’t stand to see people suffer. And Geno’s my cousin. Anyone in the joint can vouch for me.”

I started to refuse his offer for a second time. But Morgan leaned over to me and whispered, “Mom, please. I’m so cold.”

I looked at the man’s car. The dash was lined with six or seven Virgin Mary bobbleheads. Several sets of rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror. I couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or not. Was it an overt attempt to assuage a horrific amount of guilt, or was he simply a harmless nutjob?

I looked at the man. He was small enough, I figured, that I could take him, provided he wasn’t hiding a gun in the glove compartment under all those bobbleheads. He stuck his hand out to me and said, “My name’s Carlos Diego MacLauchlin. I’m the only Irish/Spanish/Greek/French Polynesian you’ll ever meet. Let me help you.” I don't know if it was the cheesesteak talking, but my gut told me to go with the nutjob theory.

We got into his wonderfully warm car. I dialed 9-1-1 into my cell phone and kept my finger over the “send” button. The Virgin Mary bobbleheads nodded in unison as he drove, almost an unspoken affirmation that I’d done the right thing.

And true to his word, the crazy man delivered his even crazier guests safely to our hotel. I thanked him with a generous amount of cash, shut the door behind me, and then said to my daughter, “Don’t you ever take a ride from a stranger, do you hear me? Not unless I’m with you.”

That evening, as Ty escorted us past security guards and we waited in the tunnel to meet Jon Bon Jovi, Ty whispered to me, “By the way, he agreed to meet you because I told him you actually bought his old statue from Madame Tussaud’s.”

The rock star came out of his dressing room, and my heart sank. Up close, he wasn’t as handsome as he is when performing on stage. He wasn’t much taller than I am, his face was covered in that awful orange stage makeup, and his teeth had obviously been overly refurbished – they were purple. When he realized I was the woman who had supposedly purchased his statue, he smiled and said, “Oh, thank you for being such a dedicated fan.” I know the man was probably thinking, This nutjob has a life-size likeness of me in her house, and I can only imagine what she does with it. The dash of her car is probably lined with Jon Bon Jovi bobbleheads. At least she looks harmless.

I stammered stupidly, “Don’t believe everything Ty tells you.” But he just continued smiling that famous smile and said, “I don’t mind.”

I left the City of Brotherly Love the next morning having learned a few things about life. First, never believe everything you hear. Second, don’t let appearances deceive you. Next, a rock star will always look better from a distance. And finally, for God’s sake, trust your gut, listen to your mother, and don't ever let a bobblehead be your guide.