Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna

I stood near the security checkpoint at the airport looking toward the gates. People were coming off their flights and walking past me toward Baggage Claim as I craned my neck to see her. She was riding in the back of a golf cart. I could see the back of her head looking to her left and right repeatedly. Several marshals in those blue jackets with the yellow “U.S. Marshal” lettering were escorting the cart. They spun around frequently as they tried to observe all angles in the terminal.  4 or 5 guys in “FBI” blue jackets were limping behind the cart. A couple had their arm in a sling. All had bandages on their faces or black a eye or two.

I looked over at the marshal next to me. “They brought her in from Egypt?”

“Yep. She raised all kinds of hell there. Homeland Security wants nothing to do with her. She beat the hell out of those FBI guys.”

“She doesn’t like the FBI.”

The marshal laughed. “Apparently. What’s up with that?”

I shrugged. “Something about J. Edgar Hoover stealing her dresses.”

The marshal just stared at me. “She’s a relative of yours?”

I kept looking ahead, watching her grey hair move about as she conversed with the other marshals.  “I don’t really know.”

“How old is she?”

“I’m not real sure. I remember she was really angry with Robert Kennedy when I was little.”

“Why?”

“She said something about him ruining her boyfriend’s family business and stuff. I remember something about Cuba. Later she told me it was because he dropped her for some “broad” named Marilyn.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She’s what you call your ‘Nanna’ – how can you not know more about her? What’s up with that?”

“I think we got her from the Witness Protection Program.”

“Really?”

“I’m just not sure.”

“Well, you’re getting her back now.”

The progressively louder electric hum of the golf cart meant it was coming closer and I turned to look. It stopped right next to me. I stepped around to the back of the cart and saw her.

“Nanna!”

She looked up and tried to reach up and hug me, but the manacles slowed her down a bit. The marshals all reached in their jackets. The FBI guys yelled to “just shoot her”. Nanna rolled her eyes mockingly and smiled at me.

The marshal with me at the security checkpoint calmed everyone down. “Orders are to turn her over to you. I never want to see her again – none of us do.”

I nodded as they unlocked her and walked away after the cart sped off. Nanna flinched toward the FBI agents as they limped past and laughed heartily when they jumped.

“Egypt? Why Egypt Nanna?”

“Couldn’t resist. I told him 30 years ago I was coming back. He didn’t believe me.”

I didn’t want to know any more about that.

We walked slowly down the terminal as she relied on my arm to keep her steady.

“Hungry Nanna?”

She shook her head. Pouting. I’ve seen it before.

“How about some onion rings and shots of Patron – your favorite, right? C’mon, it’s my birthday and the Super Bowl is on.”

Nanna smiled. “Oh, I suppose.”

——————————————–

Before we stepped into the tavern, I opened the back of the van. Nanna stood her ground and crossed her arms. I pointed to the van and she shook her head. I nodded and pointed to the van.

“Everything Nanna.”

My dear sweet Nanna emptied the pockets of her jacket. Into the van went several pistols, collapsible batons, brass knuckles, knives, and so forth. Even piano wire.

“Didn’t they search you Nanna?”

“Not very well, huh baby?”

“Promise me you’ll be nice in here Nanna.”

She didn’t answer.

“Promise me, Nanna.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

As we walked inside, the Steelers scored . . .

(to be continued)

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