When I was a little boy. I wanted desperately to be Bond, James Bond.
I used to pretend my Radio Flyer wagon was an Austin martin equipped with machine guns, revolving license plates, oil slick devices, and, of course, in ejector seat (which usually ejected me along with my passenger).
I perfected my karate chop, my judo jab, und my kung-fu kick. I was a master at the art of firing crabapples with my slingshot, which my master technician, **G.” had crafted for me. “G” stood for my grandfather, Guy, he had all kinds of neato gadgetry: winding pocket-watches Trom Korea, motorized weed-wackers that could obliterate nearly anything, and a fountain pen that never failed to completely douse the user with ink. This was the stuff of bond dreams; a might arsenal to use against mine enemies.
And although my enemies were few, those that bonded against Murphy, Morgan Murphy. were fierce (and probably communists). There was Miss Dorothy, my sisters nanny – a huge and ferocious woman who weighed nearly 300 metric tons. There was Sam, the garbage man whose truck was always a good target for crabapples. But the most dangerous of all my enemies was Burke “The Killer” Hulsey — my bearded, thirdgrace nemesis.
Lucky for me, like Bond, I had a genius boss. “M;” which in my case, stood for
“Mama.” She played along she found all black outfits for me to roam the neighborhood in. Occasionally she let me gamble a cookie or two in a highstakes game of “Go-Fish.” She even let my sister play “Miss Moneypenny.”
I had forgotten about all this until recently. Last Friday was, for lack of better words, a yucky day here in New York City. Work had been difficult. The subways had been difficult. The 13 million residents of the island had been difficult. When I got home, I had a message on my machine from my date of the evening, “Morgan, I’m afraid I can’t make our rendez vous I’ve been invited to sing at the Stanhope Hotel …” What would Bond do in this situation? Quickly I ran to the closet. I put on my navy Burberry turtleneck and navy Paul Stuart double-breasted suit; I put some Dippity-Doo in my hair and threw on my overcoat, scarf, and fedora: I looked in the mirror and said, “Get me my Stanhope invitation, Miss Moneypenny.”
The Stanhope Hotel is on Fifth Avenue at about 81st Street. In New York City, this is what is considered a good view.” The hotel overlooks Central park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Parked outside was more than a million dollars worth of automobiles — too bad I didn’t have my Radio Flyer for the valet.
But I digress. With the wind blowing my scarf behind me, I strode triumphantly into the Stanhope. I looked at the doorman, who was dressed like a third-world dictator, and said, “Good evening.” He said, “Good evening.” back to me and then added “Sir.” How nice.
Regally, with an air of 007 aloofness, I approached the gold-gilded front desk of the magnificent hotel.
The ancient bellhop eyed me with some look of concern, “Yes?” he said. I inquired as the where the performance was being held within the Stanhope. “What performance, sir?” the dolt of a belihop said.
“THE performance,” I rightly told the man
“There isn’t a performance here this evening,” he said.
“No, no, there is a performance here this evening and I intend to see it, my good man,” I said in my most sophisticated Bond voice.
Somewhere in here, I guess at this point, I should add that I had consumed a prolific and prodigious amount of Scotch, having had the duty to escort a fair and lovely young woman from the office to a totally unwholesome office event, where, being called to perform as a gentleman, I was forced to drink with the lady — I certainly couldn’t let the dear woman drink alone. Unfortunately, the woman nearly drank me under the proverbial table.
Sadly. I had not recovered from my state and was becoming rather agitated at the bell thingy who obviously didn’t appreciate Murphy, Morgan Murphy, when he saw him. Really. So I clenched my jaw and gave him the Andalusia stare – a deadly show of force and determination.
Immediately the chap blathered, “Oh do you mean the Harvey Baum Party in the penthouse?”
“Quite right!” I bellowed. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I then thundered my way into the elevator with a dramatic Bond flourish of my overcoat. I pressed “P,” but the elevator remained motionless – one has to be “keyed up” to the penthouse. “Do you have an invitation sir?”‘ the pestering little bellboy asked. How did James Bond put up with tedious little folks like this?
“Of course not,” I barked from within the mahogany-lined elevator. Still no movement. I decided to go for it, “Get this elevator moving. I’m the speaker for the evening.
“Who are you? Are you on the list? I was asked.
“I’m the Honorable Morgan Murphy, governor of the great state of Alabama. move this dad-burned elevator!” I hollered.
There was a dramatic pause. I watched the top of the bellhop’s hat sway at the desk and suddenly. I began my ascent.
To make this long column longer. Harvey turned out to be one of the wealthiest men in New York. The $2,500 per night penthouse was awash with new York’s richest people who stood around sipping! champagne and comparing the size of one another’s diamonds. It was Harvey’s birthday. A bust of his head adorned the front of the room A mountain of his gifts adorned the rear. My date of the evening sang songs about Harvey’s Range Rover and Harvey’s poor golfing skills.
After eyeballing a few people who looked like communists that might steal Harvey’s gifts, I retired to the balcony and gazed at glittering New York. The cabs rushed down Fifth Avenue. The Met was bathed in white light. The autumn air was cool, and a Harvey moon was out. My childhood fantasy had actually come true I had secretly managed to worm my way into an exclusive party just like James Bond. Afterward, I went backstage to see my date.
She gushed, “Why Morgan? I didn’t know you knew Harvey!”
“Doesn’t everybody?” I asked with a winning-007 smile.