by Judson, Tom
FOREMAN
(furious)
That sounded terrible. What’s wrong with you guys? The tenor section was weak!!
AN ELF
Wasn’t our fault, boss. Hermey didn’t show up.
FOREMAN
WHAT!! Where is that little…
(Stops himself.)
I think we all know what the Foreman intended to say.
Hermey the Gay Dentist Elf was unapologetically fabulous. (And let’s get this straight; it’s Hermey, not Herbie.) He, alone, stood out from his oafish co-workers. In the scene above, when the Foreman was asking his whereabouts, Hermey had all the dolls in the workshop lined up working on their teeth, but he could have just as easily been perfecting that swoosh of blond hair that could only have been achieved with a 2000-watt hand dryer and a round brush. With his sense of style and insouciant wit, Hermey was the Carson Kressley of his day.
I venture to guess Hermey wasn’t all that disappointed climbing out the workshop window, leaving behind the only home he knew for the Big Wide World, uncertain as it was. After all, potential fame, fortune and a Park Avenue practice awaited him.
When Hermey and Rudolph arrive on the Island of Misfit Toys they find the place we’ve all been longing for: everyone fits in precisely because they’re all misfits. It’s the Greenwich Village of the North Pole. (And, by the way, if you’ve been wondering all these years what’s wrong with the little girl dolly, well, there’s nothing wrong with her; my guess is she’s just a Misfit Hag who gets her kicks hanging around square-wheeled locomotives because it makes her feel superior.)
It seemed like such a perfect little world that, to me, it made no sense to leave. I imagined the toys sitting around the skating rink, frozen cocktails in hand, marveling at how wonderful it is to be unique. (Not to mention that Lion King Daddy with the deep voice. Grrrr, indeed.)
But, leaving the island was what the toys wanted, and getting back home was what Rudolph wanted and--all thanks to Hermey the Gay Elf--that’s exactly what they got. Yup, The Homo saved the day by extracting the tooth that made the Snowmonster so Abominable. True, he had to fall over a cliff in the process, but here was one pre-Stonewall drama that didn’t require that the homosexual take his own life or suffer a tragic death. Oh, and he survived the precipitous plunge just fine, thanks. (“That’s the thing about Bumbles—Bumbles bounce!”)
In no small way I feel we all owe Hermey a debt of gratitude. He matter-of-factly showed us all that it’s not only alright to be a fey, stylish individual, standing out from a bunch of brutish conformists, following an unlikely life-path, but that by doing so we might even help save Christmas.
SHOPLIFTING FIRE
The phone rang around two A.M. on a beautiful summer night. The man on the other end of the phone asked if I could come to the Towers at the Waldorf-Astoria on a job. I had already seen a client earlier that evening, but I was still wide awake, so I agreed to take a trip to the East Side. He said he was in the guest room to Suite 1612 (Guest room? Hotel rooms have guest rooms?) and that I had to be extremely quiet. The very rich are different from you and me.
As my cab sped through Rockefeller Center I noticed that the statue of Prometheus, which usually sits in the fountain of the skating rink, had been raised up onto the sidewalk in front of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. I recalled reading in the paper about some work being done on the fountain that necessitated the temporary removal of the golden statue. It was the first time since the 1930s that it had been out of its usual location and it seemed a little embarrassed to be loafing on the pavement.
Alighting from the taxi, I paid my fare and headed into the side entrance of the hotel. Since I was going to the Towers, I walked across the lobby toward the elevators designated specifically for that private area of the Waldorf. Still manned by an operator, these cabs are of the same vermillion as those in the main lobby, but they’re a bit smaller, more intimate.
As the operator held the door for me, I stepped in to find another passenger already there. A lovely young woman, beautifully dressed with long, straight black hair, looked demurely down at her feet.
“Floors, please?” I gave mine as sixteen, the young woman as four below that. Save for the humming of the lift cables, we ascended in silence until we landed at twelve. The woman stepped out of the car and looked uncertainly both ways down the corridor before walking to the right. The elevator door closed and the car started to rise once more. The operator glanced quickly in my direction. “Hooker,” he snorted. Momentarily stunned at his perception I paused before replying, “Oh, the girl! How can you tell?” “I can just tell,” he answered. A barely audible “Hmmm…” was the best that I could muster in response.
“Sixteen. Watch your step, sir.” I nodded to the man, who added, “Have a good night, sir.” Unsure of which direction my destination lay, but aware that the elevator man was watching me, I strode purposefully down the hallway to the left. Only when I heard the door glide shut behind me did I take the opportunity to look at the numbers on the room doors and discover that I was headed in the right direction.
I got to Suite 1612 and, sure enough, just below the brass number plate was another that read “Guest room” with an arrow pointing to the left. I rounded the corner, tapped gently on the door and heard footsteps approach on the other side. The peephole went dark for a moment and then the door swung open. Standing there was a man in his mid-to-late 40s clad in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He was quite handsome, in a Burt Bacharach, Malibu-surfer-boy-gone-to-seed kind of way. I liked him instantly.
I walked past him into the room and turned to face him as he shut the door. I smiled, and as I drew in my breath to say hello, he clapped his hand over my mouth. Backing me across the room, I lost my balance when we reached the bed and we fell onto it, him on top of me, with his hand still tight across my mouth. “You have to be quiet” he whispered as his blue eyes bore into mine. I nodded yes. “You can’t make a sound,” he said as he slowly removed his hand and brushed his fingers gently across my face. I looked at him for a moment and then silently mouthed, “Why not?”
“Because my wife and her parents are in the main suite.”
What was already a very sexy moment instantly became even more erotic. A smile spread across my face and I pulled his ear down next to my mouth. “You’re nuts,” I whispered. He looked at me and shrugged. I put my hand behind his neck and pulled him towards me and started to kiss him. As we kissed he started to unbutton my shirt, running his hand over my chest and pinching my nipples, which caused me to moan. He abruptly raised himself up on his hands and gave me a look that said, “What did I tell you?” I nodded reassuringly and rolled him over so I was now on top. I slowly kissed my way down his body and undid the towel from around his waist. As I put his hard dick in my mouth he let out a small sound. We looked at each other for a split second and then both laughed silently. I stood up and finished undressing as he sat up on the end of the bed and started caressing my legs and ass. I leaned over to kiss him again and we lay back down on the bed.
In a bit I found myself lying on my back with him over me as he jerked himself off to a climax. He was kissing me when he came, and I could feel the muscles in his mouth relax just as the rest of his body tensed and he shot his load on my stomach and chest. He sighed deeply and then collapsed on the bed next to me. He scooped his cum off my body and used it to jack me off. I lay there, looking into his eyes and, just as I was about to cum, he gently put his hand over my mouth (which drove me crazy) causing me to have an intense, silent orgasm.
As we lay there looking up at the ceiling, I could feel him turn to face me. I raised up on one elbow and whispered into his ear, “Come for a walk with me. I want to show you something.” To my surprise he nodded yes.
We dressed in silence and he paid me, throwing in a $100 tip. Riding down to the lobby in the elevator, the operator wore a quizzical expression but kept his thoughts to himself. As we spun through the revolving doors onto a nearly deserted Park Av
enue I turned to my new friend and said, “What the hell was going on up there?!”
He explained that he and his wife and her parents had all been out to dinner that night and had drunk a lot of wine. That’s why he was confident they wouldn’t be bursting through the connecting door from the suite. They were all flying back to Los Angeles in the morning.
“What time does your plane leave?”
“Whenever we want it to.”
Oh, I see.
As we headed--mostly in silence--over to Rockefeller Center I explained that he was going to see a once-in-a-lifetime sight. I pointed out various architectural and cultural landmarks on the way and, as we walked down the Channel gardens (so-called because the England building lies on one side of them and the France building on the other) I nudged his shoulder with my own and said, “Y’know, you johns aren’t supposed to be so sexy.” Without missing a beat he responded, “Yeah? Well, you hookers aren’t supposed to be so smart.” I chuckled and put my hand on the back of his neck, giving it a little squeeze.
We stood there on the street, gazing up at Prometheus, his hand outstretched, forever brandishing the fire he stole from the gods. My focus slowly traveled to the man standing next to me, his profile silhouetted by the lights of the skating rink, and I thought to myself that I had done a little flame-stealing of my own that night. I suppose the sordid details of my heist brought it closer to the level of a petty theft, but there was definitely fire involved.
We said goodnight and he got into a cab. I decided to walk home and headed west just as the morning sky was fading from silver to rose.
I never saw or heard from the guest in the guest room again, so I don’t know if what he told me about who slept on the other side of that door was the truth or not.
But I really don’t care.
VINO E CUCINA
The beaded curtain clicked pleasantly behind me as I entered the restaurant. The streets outside were dusty and hot, the air humid and still; but here, under the vaulted ceiling, it was cool. A small table against the wall held an old plastic radio whose cord was plugged into an outlet in the ceiling. Next to the radio sat a small fan whirring silently as the breeze it created blew ribbons attached to the blade housing. The radio played Italian songs and the tunes were obscured by static whenever the fan reached a certain place in its sweep.
The room was clean, if spare. Four or five tables sat evenly spaced on the tiled floor, each laid with a blue checked cloth with a dark blue border and, over that, a sheet of heavy plastic. A capped bottle of water and a tall glass filled with packaged breadsticks sat on each table, along with two single-ply paper napkins folded into triangles. Mismatched chairs were pushed neatly underneath.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that five of the tables were empty. At the sixth sat an old lady dressed in black, her white hair tied in a tight bun and a pair of gloves resting on the table next to a black purse. Before her was a plate of food and a half-liter of wine. I nodded to her as I sat the table nearest the door, but she just sneered in response.
The owner emerged from the kitchen and greeted me in Italian. Neither of us spoke the other’s language, so he took me by the elbow to a table placed just outside the kitchen door. Here the dishes of the house were proudly displayed. I attempted to explain that I didn’t eat meat, but when he insisted—in English—that his pork chops were as beautiful as children, I agreed to try them.
The old lady watched me as I ate and read my book. I found it difficult to concentrate under her gimlet eye and raised my glass to her as I took a sip.
Again she sneered.
I finished my meal and paid the bill, thinking this would be a good place to come back to tomorrow. It was just across the Arno from the Vatican and near all the sights I wanted to see and explore. And the pork chops were as beautiful as children.
As I passed the old lady’s table I nodded to her and, as I bent my head toward her, saw that what had appeared to be a sneer was actually a cleft palate; a “harelip.” I hurried out of the restaurant, uncomfortable and embarrassed.
To earn a living after my grandfather died, my grandmother ran what was essentially a private nursing home. She “took in ladies,” as she called it.
One of Gram’s ladies was an old, mean woman with a cleft palate. My sisters and I were frightened of her when we visited and would avoid as much as possible having to speak to her. When this woman was well into her seventies someone, somehow, paid for her to have corrective surgery. She returned home to my grandmother’s a smiling, sweet old lady.
I don’t know if her countenance really improved with her appearance or if her deformity had disguised what had been a sunny nature all along, but we were no longer frightened of her.
When I returned to the café the following day I decided to assume the old lady’s sneer was her way of returning my smile when I greeted her with a “buon giorno” as I passed her table.
The third day, as I approached the restaurant, I saw her standing just outside the door, looking expectantly down the street in the opposite direction. She saw me as she turned and hurried inside to her table. I passed through the beaded curtain and stopped at her table to wish her good day. The old lady still didn’t respond to my greetings, but I was no longer afraid of her. I sat at a table and enjoyed a scallopini that was as beautiful as a child.
I saw no reason to alter my routine on my final day in Rome. As I stepped into the café I heard not only the radio that sat on the little table against the wall, but three chattering voices as well.
My friend had company; two old ladies with hair just as white and dresses just as black as her own. Their conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the restaurant. I walked directly over to their table, made a little bow, and said, “Buon giorno, Signora.”
“Buon giorno,” she replied, as her old lady friend looked first at me and then at her.
Two years later, on my next visit to Italy, I managed to find the little café with the vaulted ceiling in the warren of streets across the Tiber from The Vatican. It had gone out of business and was vacant. I cupped my hands and put my face up to the glass in the door. I’d like to say I saw a table with a pair of white gloves lying neatly on the faded cloth. But the room was empty.
All that was left was the sign above the door and a memory of pork chops as beautiful as children.
OYSTERS, ROCKEFELLER?
“Sure, I’d love to go. But, it’s pricey, y’know? Aren’t you always broke?”
Such was the response from my cousin Frannie when I asked if she’d like to join me for oysters and martinis at The Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal. I’ve been treating myself to the occasional visit to that elegant subterranean shoal a level and a half below 42nd Street for more than fifteen years now. And, yes, it is expensive, but it’s money well spent. I see nothing wrong with such an extravagance every six or eight months.
Besides, I feel slightly proprietary of the place as several major scenes in my un-produced screenplay are set there.
Since Bruce died I usually sit at the counter by myself; a dozen oysters chilling patiently on the chipped ice spread out in a wide, white dish on the bar in front of me as I take in the hubbub of the place. But, I hadn’t seen Frannie (Bruce was her cousin, after all) in quite a while and I knew her company would be as glittery as the terra cotta tiles that line the walls and ceiling of this landmark restaurant. Our family is convinced Alison Janney based her character of C. J. Craig on “The West Wing” on Frannie, so not only is time spent with her time to be treasured, but one has to stay on one’s toes, as well. (It seems cousin-bating is her favorite sport.)
What better spot than The Oyster Bar to debate current events and lob bon mots back and forth at each other, defending our points with the parry and thrust of a tooth-picked olive?
I arrived at Grand Central a few minutes early, so, I made my entrance down the escalator form the Pan Am Building, taking in the wide sweep of the main waiting room—surely on of the grandest spaces
in New York, if not all of America. The constellations painted on the ceiling above shone happily down on the rush-hour travelers and the piped-in holiday music gave the moment a particularly festive feeling. From up above on the moving stairway the floor of the station resembled an undulating ant farm. And, like a squadron of ants, upon closer inspection there was perfect method to the madness; everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed and at the precise tempo they needed to move to make their trains, to meet their partners, to shortcut from Lexington to Vanderbilt Avenues on this cold night with the mercury fast approaching freezing.
