Flying pigs

A few years back my brother and I were waiting in line at Port Authority. We were on our way to Jersey to visit my Mom.

About ten feet away a vendor was selling plastic pigs with wings attached. They had strings on top and batteries inside. They could be hung from the ceiling and, once the switch on their side was flipped, would appear to be flying.

My brother bought one. On the bus ride out to my mom’s he turned to me.

“Early birthday gift,” he said. He handed the pig over.

I often think about that moment, about how calm he was and about how quickly time can elapse between impetuous action and reasoned response.

For years the flying pig sat, in its box, in my closet. Once I considered incorporating it in a lesson plan but then, at the last moment, decided not to.

When I was packing up my old apartment prior to moving I came across the flying pig. It ended up in one of the garbage bags.

Monday night after BINGO my friend and I were headed home when we impetuously decided to have a final round in what turned out to be a lesbian bar.

And there they were, hanging above the bar: dozens of flying pigs identical to the one I had only recently left behind in the trash bin of 12th street.

Last night my brother came in from LA with his girlfriend. In his honor we had a family dinner at my mom’s place in Jersey.

While we were having cocktails, one of my aunts told a story about how in her twenties she used to play harp and sing at weddings. She says the day she knew her career in entertainment was over was when she shared the stage with a chimp on rollerskates.

"They were all the rage at weddings in the 70’s," she explained.

There wasn’t a definitive throughline from flying plastic pigs to chimps on rollerskates at 70's weddings. Yet I saw one.

It went back to something my friend said the other night at the lesbian bar in the moment after we realized what kind of bar it was.

"It's good sometimes," he said, "Just to enjoy the experience of life. Don't you think?"