Jill Thomas is a rambler, traveler, and storyteller with a big laugh who thinks its funny how life leads you right where you need to be, however the roundabout path.
Do you have a day that stands out among all the thousands you've lived that was especially unusual or memorable?
I do. It happened when I was barely an adult, and still, through all the decades that followed, no day has ever topped it.
It started like most others during that time of my life: I got up, dressed, drank coffee, and rode the Toronto streetcar to my first grown-up job. I was a research assistant on a Canadian reality TV show called Missing Treasures: The Search for Our Lost Children.
I was 22, and my job was to interview parents whose children were missing for whatever horrible reason and give notes to the script writers.
The crew was in a flap when I got to work because one of our field producers forgot to get a mom to sign a release form after her interview. This particular mom lived in Brooklyn and lost her son ten years prior at a carnival on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. He got on a Twist-a-Whirl ride and never got off again.
The production was ready to go - actors, cameras, a rented theme park were all on standby but the crew but could not start shooting without this release form. Every hour the production was delayed cost the producers $20,000.
I was busy minding my own business at my desk when the Executive Producer walked up and said, "you're going to New York." He passed me an envelope with a blank release form, a Brooklyn address, $500 in cash, and a plane ticket. He told me my return flight was at 7 pm and he would fire me if I came back without a signature.
I'd never been to New York City.
When I exited La Guardia airport, I gave the driver the address and experienced my first taste of life in NYC. The taxi driver took the long way, driving me around for an hour and a half, and when I questioned him, he responded, "do you want me to let you out here?" Looking out the window, my answer was a hard no.
Finally, we arrived at a massive, worn-out apartment building on a dodgy-looking street in Brooklyn. I rang the buzzer and went up. I was scared shitless and kept telling myself get in, get the signature, get out. The mom spotted my weakness and decided she wanted a day out.
She asked for a ride to Manhattan, and said she would sign the form once we were there, so we hopped in the cab at my expense. Then she asked to eat at Planet Hollywood, so we did that. Then she wanted to go for dessert in a fancy hotel, and now it is almost 6 pm, and I am freaking out that I'll miss my plane and not have enough money for cab fare back to the airport. I don't yet own a credit card and have $75 left after I pay the Planet Hollywood bill.
So I do what many 22-year-olds in my predicament might do. I cry. The mom from hell takes pity, signs the freaking form, and flags me a cab. I'm still sniffling when I get in the taxi. Thankfully this cabbie takes a more direct route to the airport arriving in 30 minutes relieving me of my last $75. I was the last person to board the plane.
You think this is the end. Wrong.
The plane flew through a storm. It turned fully sideways on one side, then the other. I could see lightning out the windows and was holding hands with the stranger sitting beside me. Many passengers were crying and screaming.
I exited the Toronto airport, ready to rid myself of the form and go home to bed, but instead, I was told by the production assistant that picked me up that I was needed on set because they were short of extras. I was promptly whisked off to a rented carnival and assigned to be an extra on the Tilt-A-Whirl which I rode non-stop for three hours.
I was finally released at 2 am and my hippie, busker, boyfriend had come to pick me up. It was the Friday of Thanksgiving weekend, and we promised to be at his parent's house in Ottawa the next day. So we drove 6 hours directly from the carnival, in sub-zero weather, in a VW van with only a Canadian Tire space heater plugged into the cigarette lighter for heat.
As the sun rose over the Ottawa Valley, he lamented that I couldn't sing because I was tone-deaf. It turned out later that this was a deal-breaker for our relationship.
No part of this story is exaggerated or made up. I suspect I will never top it.
I'd love hear about your most memorable day in the comments!
READ MORE > JT's Tales From The Trail
Love this story. As an East Coast transplant who has lived in N. CA for nearly 30+ years, I can totally relate to scene-setting and sketchiness of Brooklyn back in the day, as well as the “what’s in it for me?” culture of NY. I worked there 6-1/2 years before I escaped.
Quite the story! Some of our adventures should never be repeated. Thanks for morning chuckle and an inspirational poke to contribute a few of my own doozies.
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