Another Significant Milestone

Same Shit, Different Crocs

The first (and possibly only) time I had alcoholic beverages with, or in front of, my dad was on a flight from Orlando to New York. My dad was a frequent flyer, traveling all over the globe as a software specialist for Digital Equipment Corporation. Whenever the family would fly somewhere, he would insist that we wear nice clothes as that would make us more likely to be upgraded to First Class. Despite his quadrillion-mile status with Delta and my best dress slacks, we were never granted the privilege of passing through the curtain into The Area Of Elite Travelers.

Until 1990.

I had just turned twenty-one, which I celebrated with kamikaze shots at a long-gone and beloved oyster bar named Calico Jack’s. My friend Mike Wheeler took me out and we tore it up. As fate would have it, my first day as a server (they called them “Dub Dubs” for Waiter/Waitress") for TGI Fridays was the following morning. I somehow made it on time and enjoyed several years of gainful employment there.

So, on a flight to New York to see my paternal grandparents, my dad’s scheme finally came to fruition. We were shown to our seats near the front of the plane and said seats were light years more comfortable than those of the peons behind us. Suffer, scum! When the stewardess (outdated nomenclature that I’d love to bring back, along with Andrew Dice Clay’s “call ‘em what they are…traveling hoooahs!”) came by to ask what we wanted, beverage-wise, I asked what my options were.

She told me it was an open bar. Having just turned twenty-one, my idea of a top-shelf drink was an Absolut Screwdriver (it was late morning). And how much is that, ma’am? PARDON? FREE? I could see the look of concern in my teetotaling dad’s eyes almost immediately.