CHAPTER ONE
All Aboard
Ring, ring.
A customer service rep was on the line. "Hi, this is Kathy with Cruises.com!" Kathy started off the call with friendly, upbeat chatter about the weather, our shared East Coast accents, and everything under the sun. It was like calling your favorite aunt and having a good old catch-up about life. After five minutes, Kathy and I both realized that we had chitchatted for an unusual amount of time about everything but a possible cruise.
Kathy cut to, "Let's get some basic information today, Bill, and let's talk about some options. What's your full name?" I provided her with my birth name but told her that I go by Bill. Kathy responded by spelling out my last name, Coyman, letter by letter. I confirmed the spelling and said that the name was a bit unique, certainly not Smith, and we laughed.
She asked, "Do you happen to know a Sue Coyman?"
I said I didn't and mentioned that she might be a distant cousin. Kathy rattled off four or five other names. It seemed like Sue's family might all be from upstate New York. I explained that I was from the Boston area, and most of my immediate clan lived close to good old Beantown and no farther than one state over. The big moment, however, in this lengthy first call was when Kathy said, "Wait. Do you happen to know the guy who was in the newspapers a while back, the Mystery Train Man? It was all over the papers."
At this point, I was shocked, gobsmacked, to be honest, and was about to hang up the phone. This was too surreal. The conversation took me back to my childhood and to the divorced single moms of "Divorce Court," my old neighborhood 40 minutes from Boston. The moms repeatedly asked me, "Billy, was that your father in the newspapers again?"
I snapped back to the call, and I replied with a simple, "Yes."
Kathy noticed my awkward pause and said, "Sorry, Bill, let's talk about some trip options."
I shared a few of the options I had noted, and we agreed on an amazing two-month trip from Vancouver, Canada, to London, England, as the best journey at the best price!
If I could shed just a little light on this for a moment. I have lived a humble life in so many ways. This trip was going to be a true bucket-list moment for me. Every penny in my adult piggy bank had been hard-earned. The spoons in my kitchen were far from real silver growing up-they were stainless steel, at best. My cabin on the ship would be an inside room at the bottom of the ship, no windows, no frills. A great room for "shitting, showering, and shaving," as my old man would say!
Life is truly short, and the phrase "You snooze, you lose" immediately comes to mind. This journey would take me around a nice chunk of the world and offer me the opportunity to write a real-life story.
"Billy, let the world be your oyster!" my larger-than-life father always told me.
It had been hard to envision those fancy oysters being my world in my early days, that's for sure. I grew up in a dying industrial mill town, a landlocked and aging oyster, while my father's oyster was rough-a post-World War II housing project in a tiny neighborhood in the shadows of Boston's colonial past.
I immediately shared the story of Kathy and the cruise conversation with my close friends, and everyone responded with, "Oh my God!" eyes and/or mouth wide open and serious outbursts of laughter.
Again, it was this surreal moment on a phone call that would make this crazy connection and ultimately unleash even more emotions. It was clearly time to share the crazy and colorful story of the Mystery Train Man and keep it real, raw, and outrageously funny, just like the man my dad was to practically everyone he encountered.
Late-Night Call
Ring, ring!
I woke up to a phone call from an unknown number; it was just a few minutes before midnight. I was a bit disoriented, as I was in a budget hotel in downtown San Diego on a consulting project. As we all know, a late-night phone call is rarely good news.
I answered and heard a man's voice say, "Hey, Billy. It's a friend of your dad's. Hey, we lost your dad today."
"Where'd you lose him?" I reply wittily.
Dad's friend was a bit stunned by my sarcastic tone and quickly replies, "No, Billy. I'm not being funny. We really lost your dad today in NYC. He was working for us. He died."
Thinking out loud, I replied, "He is going to be so upset with himself!"
Again, the caller was a bit confused by my comments. On one of the worst phone calls of my life, humor rose to the occasion, as it often did, and rescued me from real dread. My response to my dad's friend was clearly cynical, as I was referencing the historical rivalry between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox baseball teams.
I gained my composure and, respectful of the time, told the caller, "I will be on the first plane to NYC."
The friend gave me a few basic details: I needed to go to Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan the next morning, but first I needed to book a flight.
I thanked him and hung up to dial Delta Airlines immediately. Delta had the only nonstop to JFK at 6 a.m. the next morning, a $1,000-plus on the credit card, as it turned out, because bereavement air fares were as dead as my dad. I could not go back to bed. Instead, I packed my suitcase and sent emails to my team to cover for me due to this sudden news.
I decided that I would not call my mother and sister, as they would not be able to help me manage the situation, and I wanted to have a real handle on his passing before breaking the news to anyone, even them.
My upbringing had conditioned me to pull it all together and get all the facts as best as possible before delivering any bad news to the family. Little did the late-night caller, or anyone else, know that there was another serious clock ticking. I had 24 hours to get my dad back to Boston and to Harvard Medical School, of all places. Yes, my dad wanted to donate his body to Harvard, and that was a wish I was committed to fulfilling!
It was go-time-I had to get to New York City ASAP.
Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock
I boarded the Delta Airlines flight at San Diego International; it was just a few minutes late leaving the gate with a longer than expected taxi to the gate at JFK. I saw this extra time as a loss, making it a real challenge to get everything done in a very small window upon my arrival in the Big Apple.
At this point, I knew that I was heading to Bellevue Hospital but not much more. My "Auntie" Joanne, Dad's youngest sister back in Boston, was now in the loop, as a friend of my father's had reached out to her with the news earlier that day.
Auntie is one of my absolute favorite people, so I knew she would be devastated at the news but would be there to help in any way she could. My father and Joanne were as thick as thieves. I later learned that Auntie Joanne was frustrated that she could not get to New York City to be on the ground with us to help address the situation.
I reached out to Harvard Medical School and my father's contact there, who ran the Anatomical Gift Program. I informed her that Dad had died suddenly in New York City, and I was working hard to get him home to Boston that evening.
The woman was so kind, empathetic, and patient. She reminded me that time was ticking and offered to see what she could do to help get his body there to fulfill his wish. On our second call that day, she shared that she fully understood my commitment to move fast, as this was my father's final wish. Together, we would do everything to make his wish a reality. We were a long way from Longwood Avenue in Boston, so we needed to move that needle for Big Billy!
I was sweating profusely, as it was a hot August day, and I rushed from the subway to jump in a taxi to Bellevue Hospital. Bellevue, on an interesting side note, is the oldest public hospital in America, dating back to the 1700s. The hospital sure smelled and felt like an old pair of shoes in some of the older sections of the facility on that sizzler of a summer day. Like any major city hospital, it was like a bad subway station, a blur of colors, smells, and faces. I barreled down to the main desk of the morgue area and was greeted with its old wood-framed service windows, which were shutting down on me one by one.
A woman's voice came through the frosted glass. "Sorry, we open again at 8 a.m. tomorrow, sir. I am very sorry; I can't help you now."
I slammed my sweaty palms down on the counter and screamed, "I need to get my dad back to Harvard Medical School in Boston!"
The image of the woman in the frosty glass faded away. I suppose there was no messing around with a New Yorker who was done with their shift for the day.
I walked away, still sweating profusely and totally exhausted from the cross-country race to get there. I really wanted to cry, as my heart was shattered at this point. I still had a lot to do, and it was clear I would have to stay in the city for a night and needed a place to crash. I booked a three-star hotel in Midtown near Times Square on my mobile phone app and got that out of the way.
Then, I called Dad's friend back in Boston to let him know I'd arrived in New York City but experienced no joy at Bellevue Hospital that day. I told him I was going back the next day. I did not call my sister and mother that day; there was just way too much still to do, and I did not want to deal with the added raw emotions that would hit...
