Connecticut’s “Welcome” sign on 95 should just read, “FUCK YOU!”

Red lights sparkled like rubies in the asphalt as the cars lined up into infinity. 

We slithered along the Northeast corridor of I-95 like a stertorous snake. At 4 MPH, this is how Connecticut makes a sane man lose his mind. There is no rhyme or reason, there is only traffic. You sit in traffic long enough and you become friends with the pain of true torture. Terrorists know nothing about inflicting pain compared to the State of Connecticut. Hours go by and you move up then stop, wait, move up, stop, wait, wait, wait some more, then move up and repeat. There is no end in sight, no way out.

You begin to imagine the cause of the problem: an accident so mammoth it involves multiple vehicles. This is the 18-car pileup you have heard about. Utter carnage: twisted metal fragments, scorched chrome and shattered glass strewn across the highway as bodies are being tagged and bagged and the death toll rises with each subsequent news report.

As long as you have been sitting in traffic, you expect this: you want this. In fact, you are craving it and like a vampire, your thirst for blood becomes unquenchable as your mind wanders. You get jittery in the driver’s seat. Maybe someone was decapitated, you think, and you wonder if you will see the head before it is cleared away. You want to see the head -- on the road, a face scowling in agony and unrecognizable to family members -- the headless body, half in and half out of a broken windscreen -- and no amount of Christmas music will soften your resolve. There must be a staggering amount of blood splattered across the road like a first-year art student trying to emulate Jackson Pollock. The feeling overtakes you as you shift uncomfortably in your seat and crack your neck. It is overpowering and you want to scream, “THERE BETTER BE FUCKING BLOOD ALL OVER THE ROAD!”

But there won’t be any blood; no body count, no mangled hulks of Detroit’s finest, not a single shard of glass: nothing. You will realize this as you pass signs for a Construction Zone that requires a lane shift and lasts about a minute before the Zone ends. And then the cars and trucks will speed up and reach maximum warp and you will scream and yell and bitch about the hours you just spent hopelessly crawling. You will curse the Heavens and no one will hear you: the only sound to be heard will be the sound of Connecticut, its population and government collectively laughing at you.

There is no going home without suffering.

This is how we returned to Queens on Saturday.

Thanksgiving was a success, if by success, you understand it to mean “without significant event.” Ebony’s mother made collard greens and, oddly, they mixed nicely with our traditional Thanksgiving fare of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, carrots, salad, gravy and dinner rolls. Oh, and wine. There was wine. I bought two bottles of Travaglini Gattinara and one bottle of Ca Montini pinot grigio. Ebony’s mother had two glasses of it and truly seemed to enjoy it. I told her that the Ca Montini has zero finish and that’s usually the best selling point about the wine, because it’s true. It is a light, refreshing wine that leaves no aftertaste or fragrance in your nose. The Travaglini was for me: a Northern Italian red which pairs well with anything from veal to potato chips, and provided you like warm Italian reds, you would love it. But I digress.

Ebony was in fine spirits while we were in Newport, but still needed the usual care. I spent the first part of our dinner standing next to her, feeding her from a plate we’d made for her. She liked the collards, and the mashed potatoes (my forte) and turkey. I offered her a sip of wine, but she waved her hand. Uncharacteristic of my beautiful darling, but I suspect she did not want to drink in front of her mother, which seems incongruous as Sun was having wine: nevertheless, I didn’t push it.

The epic first-time meeting of mothers went swimmingly and that was no surprise: Ebony’s mother is quiet, doesn’t talk much, and my mother never shuts up. And Mom didn’t embarrass me, either, as she can be socially awkward with her persnickety opinions and stubborn attitude and clumsy manner. When she first met Ebony, in her earnestness to make a connection, she told Ebony about every black person she’d ever known since the day she was born until that afternoon. Ebony just smiled. She knew. There’s nothing racist about my Mom, but she can be clumsy: she did tell Sundai about something she’d seen on television with Al Sharpton, and about something he said that she thought was poignant. She called him “Reverend Al” and got so animated telling the story that at times I thought she was about to sing “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” Sundai was cool, though and didn’t say anything and I just blanched and kinda skulked out of the room for a bit. Mom forgets that Ebony can’t stand Al Sharpton and does not call him “Reverend” and used to make fun of him – the way many New Yorkers did – for his inscrutable 80s attire circa the Tawana Brawley incident. Good, bad or otherwise, I don’t have any opinion about the man, but I do remember that he looked completely nuts talking about “justice” walking around in a baby blue track suit sporting gold chains like a roadie for Whodini.

We never did get out to see the Crazy Christmas Lights house, and I hope to remedy that over Christmas. You do what you can and as much as Ebony can tolerate. It was enough that we were there. She was happy. 

The entire trip reminded me of every time we’d gone up, but especially the first time I introduced her to clam chowder, or as they say in Rhode Island, “CHOWDUH.”

I took Ebony to the Black Pearl, a restaurant on Bowen’s Wharf in Newport, right on the water. My friend Nicole used to be a waitress there and we went and sat in her section. We ordered the chowder and after one spoonful, Ebony was hooked. She exclaimed, “This is delicious!” and that was it. I turned her into a Chowder Monster – excuse me, a CHODUH MONSTUH. Funny to most Newporters: we all make fun of clam chowder at any local joint. My friend Chris Jones, who worked in many local restaurant kitchens would say, “It’s all Snow’s!” The thing with the Pearl is that they use dill and copious amounts of butter. It is delicious and we’re all semi-snobs but when our relatives and friends come to town, we take ‘em to the Pearl.

So, forever after, Ebony would have clam chowder wherever we went. She liked the chowder at the Pearl – loved it – but also enjoyed the chowder at Flo’s. So I got chowder from the Pearl for Thanksgiving and her mother – who had never had clam chowder – ever! – loved it and I think that if I have achieved nothing in life, I have done a Chuck Woolery on Newport clam chowder for at least two people I love. So I have that going for me.

I was thinking of that first time I took her for Chowduh… I love seeing her happy, seeing her face light up, seeing her smile. That’s what I got this trip: her smile. It’s become a smirk with the advancing state of her cancer, but I love it and I’ll take it and try to make her smile any chance I can get.

Tomorrow is her mother’s birthday. This woman has given up her life to be here and I think the world of her for it. She might be as quiet and low-key as a houseplant, but that is only my perception. She is a warrior: quiet, perhaps stoic, in her execution but nevertheless a badass for hanging in there in spite of the dire circumstances. I ordered flowers online and tomorrow, after I return the Santa Fe to Enterprise, I am going to order a full bucket of chicken and a bunch of sides from Popeye’s because she mentioned that she liked it and ever since Ebony turned me on to it, I can’t wait. It really is pretty great, Popeye’s. I don’t care about any stereotypes about black people and fried chicken: there is no denying that what is good is good and if you like it, well Fuck Everybody, we’re doin’ it. I love Popeye’s and would never have known this if Ebony had not turned me on to it and that in and of itself it why I am doing what I do for her. I just want to make her happy.

I don’t know how much time we have – the doctor says “Five years, maybe” and I will take that. Some days I think we’ll be lucky to get five months, but I keep trying because Ebony is so special to me. It’s all in the eyes and the way she looks at me telegraphs so much. We were just starting to talk seriously about wedding plans when she was diagnosed with cancer and I will forever regret that we never followed through, but what the Hell is marriage anyway? A piece of paper? Evidence of someone affirming what you already know? I love Ebony and if getting Popeye’s or clam chowder isn’t evidence of that, then I don’t know what love is any more than Lou Gramm.

I got Ebony’s Christmas present already. One of them, anyway. I have been looking for this goddamn thing on eBay for a few years now and I finally found one in her size. Ebony went to Buffalo State -- The State University College at Buffalo – and she has spoken so fondly of her time there that I have wanted to celebrate that. Since she’s such a metal chick -- a really, really metal chick – I got her a vintage Buffalo Sabres hockey jersey. Red, with the crossed sabres on the front and, appropriately, number 81, the Slovakian bastard, Miroslav Šatan. His surname is pronounced, “SHA-tan” but it reads SATAN. Pretty rad. Her mother is going to hate it, but it will make Ebony happy and isn’t that what it’s all about?

She got into hockey because I got back into hockey through a friend of mine, Alan, who used to play and then coached a local NY prep school team. He has since become the program director and is totally blasé about it – the only thing typical about him, he has this blasé attitude about everything, especially his achievements -- so Italian – but he reinvigorated my love of the sport. I can’t stand football, am indifferent to baseball and care nothing for basketball, but hockey… I love it. If you’ve skated and played it, that helps. But it’s a fast game that takes skill – you have to be able skate, for starters -- and PS: most venues play rock/metal between setups. So when a bunch of guys fly around chasing a piece of vulcanized rubber moving at 180 MPH, it is riveting and Ebony got into it which only made it better for me. We watched the Bruins (my first team before the Rangers and Islanders, Devils and Sabres) destroy the Vancouver Canucks in June, 2011 in Game 7 at Flo’s and Ebony was as into as I was, yelling, “Go Krejci, you motherfucker!” Chris was bartending that night and will never forget him giving us shots – everyone at the bar – when the Bruins won for the first time in almost 40 years. I will never forget that night because Ebony was having a great time doing something that I was into and I’m selfish that way I guess.

So I got her a jersey – not a Bruins jersey – but one that suits her.

Given her condition now, it’s hard to know what to get her. The jersey is frivolous, of course, but I think it will make her smile. And that’s about all I can do right now is make her smile and to that end, I will work my ass off. I don’t know what else to do or how to be.

I, Pagliacci.

In the meantime, there has been an early Chistmas present, just for me. It inspires me for that reason alone: I am lucky and have to try harder. One of my favorite bands – probably my favorite band since Type O Negative is “on hiatus” – The 69 Eyes, this goth n’roll band from Finland -- has actually released a Christmas song, “Christmas In New York City” and I could not be happier, under the circumstances. I played it for Ebony and she smirked. She likes it. 

You have to be grateful for the things you have and not bitter about what you do not have. At the moment, I am grateful for The 69 Eyes.

Right? It is Christmas after all.

And I am still doin' it for Ebony. It's going to take a lot more than traffic in Connecticut to break me.