by Judson, Tom
In the brief time I stood watching, I saw a surprising number of faces with furrowed brows that melted into wide smiles that were then met by a second set of lips in a warm kiss. From this I gathered there were more than a few telephone conversations across Manhattan earlier in the day that had ended with, “So, I’ll meet you under the clock.”
My own conversation with Frannie had ended, “So, I’ll meet you outside the restaurant,” which is why I walked down the marble stairs and waited in front of The Oyster Bar opposite Track 109. Minutes later I performed my own version of the brow/smile/kiss metamorphosis as Frannie walked up to me and wrapped me in her arms.
“Hey, cuz,” (her usual greeting,) “I’m so glad you asked me to come tonight. Let’s go in—I want a drink.”
Each time I walk into The Oyster Bar my focus involuntarily travels up and around the vaulted ceilings. Created in 1913 the ceiling is a landmark unto itself. The lines of the arches lead one’s eyes to the tables covered with read-and-white checked cloths in the restaurant area, then to the serpentine lunch counter covered in spotless white Formica. Finally, after optically traversing the ceiling, one’s gaze comes to rest on the Oyster Bar proper; a long, tile-faced counter set in front of the shucking station.
This is where I sit.
We walked across the room to the bar feeling impossibly hip. A hipness of an accessible variety, though—the room suggests the Hi-Los more than it does Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. It’s more Greenwich, Connecticut then Greenwich Village.
We sat in the middle of the bar, a spot that allows an oyster eater to literally watch the world go by: behind the shucking station a large, multi-paned, gothic-arched window looks out onto the ramp leading from the main concourse to the lower level of the station. Commuters paraded nonstop for our perusal and we had fun reading way too much symbolism into their strides.
Frannie and I hadn’t seen each other in quite some time, so we both had a lot to tell. Assuring me that “as long as I’m happy doing porn,” it’s fine with her, (the, “I’ll sit in the dark,” was implied,) she continued, “besides, every family needs a black sheep.” Then I made her cry by relating some of the wonderful e-mails I’ve received from total strangers. By the end of our visit she was proclaiming (in the full volume of a 2-martini voice), “I can’t believe you’re saying ‘porn star’ out loud at The Oyster Bar!”
Between trying to talk over each other to bring the other up to speed on our respective lives, we managed to order a dozen oysters from Carlos, the counter man. We opted for six Kumamotos (like butter!) and the other half-dozen at the discretion of the shucker.
Along with the large platter of oysters on ice, a smaller white plate is set on the counter with a couple of little pleated paper soufflé cups. These contain the two condiments for the bivalve feast: in one is to be found ketchup for cocktail sauce, (at The Oyster bar you mix your own with the horseradish on the counter,) and in the other, sauce mignonette. I prefer the latter, because it’s vinegary like me. Not much more than wine vinegar and shallots, really, it lays a piquant blossom of flavor onto the oyster that causes a most pleasant burning sensation upon swallowing (after just one bite of the oyster to taste it.)
All told, it required a dozen and a half (and two martinis each) to fill in the blanks on what we had each been up to since we last spent any time together, but, by that time, Frannie and I both had to get going. We paid the check (which was, in fact, glamorously expensive) and, headed up the ramp to the main floor.
Stepping through the terminal doors out onto 42nd Street we were hit by a blast of frigid air. Looking eastward for a cab my eye was caught by the huge clock looming above the terminal, watched over by winged Mercury.
“Hey, Frannie,” I said, “this is exactly where a scene from my movie takes place.”
“So, are you gonna tell me what happens in it or are you just going to stand there while I freeze to death?
“Well, these two guys meet at a cocktail party and they walk down Park Avenue together on a beautiful summer evening…”
DISSOLVE TO...
JOE and WILLIAM are now stopped on 42nd Street in front of Grand Central.
JOE
(indicating the clock high above the terminal)
That clock is one of my favorite things in New York.
WILLIAM
Why's that?
JOE
Well, it's beautiful, obviously, and monumental. But, I just love thinking about everything that it's seen; all the things that have gone on underneath it. Husbands racing to catch their trains home... women coming into town for a show. Kids like me coming in from the boondocks, hoping to make a success in the big city... Soldiers saying goodbye to their girlfriends on their way to war, not knowing if they'll come back... children growing up and then growing old; murders; births, probably; love, hate; everything that could possibly happen in the life of a city. And ol' Mercury just sits up there observing it all. Not passing judgement on anyone--not even if they're late for a train. It's like... it's like he's the custodian of human events. Collecting them all and using them to keep the springs wound in the clock of life.
WILLIAM looks at JOE.
WILLIAM
You mean maybe even us meeting tonight?
JOE
Oh, yeah, I think so. For sure.
After sharing oysters with Frannie, I’d have to say Joe is right: there are a whole lot of springs in that clock. And some of them are pretty tightly-wound. But once in a while--just once in a while, mind you--you find yourself with a perfect pearl.
SO, THIS GUY CHECKS IN TO A HOSPITAL…
“Does anyone know a 10-letter word for ‘dazzling’?”
It was the only clue left in the puzzle, which was surprising, considering the company that night. I was met with a chorus of “no” and “we gave up on that one,” so I tossed the paper down on the table and looked around the room.
Pretty much everybody was there and, to be honest, we were all feeling a little dopey. It was the end of a long day at the end of a long couple of weeks and exhaustion had devolved to giddiness. Somehow the talk had turned to cocktails and we all started reeling off our favorites. Frannie’s was a martini with a twist and Bruce’s sister preferred wine to hard liquor. Bruce’s mom said if she had to pick something it would be champagne. I was in Frannie’s court, although I usually garnish my martinis with an olive.
Then Bruce’s Aunt mentioned Campari. A visible shudder went around the room like a wave at the playoffs. I had tried that bottled Campari-and-Soda thing a couple of times when Bruce and I were in Italy, but just hadn’t been able to acquire a taste for the bitter ruby-red aperitif. Tonight there was an “ycch” from this part of the room and a “no thanks” from over there, but there were no takers on Campari as a favorite.
Bruce’s aunt sat placidly on the couch, one leg crossing the other so that the two were absolutely vertical, her Mona Lisa smile perfectly conveying her benign contempt for the uninitiated among us.
“Well, you’ve obviously never had a Negroni,” was her response.
We all admitted that was true.
Bruce’s uncle came into the waiting room and picked up the newspaper.
“Does anyone know…”
“I’m talking,” scolded Shelley, as her husband sat with the Times resting on one knee. “A Negroni is Campari, sweet vermouth and vodka. It’s a wonderful cocktail.”
This endorsement, coming from someone who puts pepper on her oatmeal, left me dubious, but I promised I’d try one at dinner.
“So, what’s a ten-letter word…”
“We don’t know!” answered the group in unison. “If we knew we would have filled it in,” said Bruce’s sister.
“C’mon, dinner!” announced Bruce’s Dad. I’m hungry.
As well stood up to leave Frannie said she’d just wait here.
“But you need to eat something.”
“Just bring me back something,” she said. “Anything, I don’t care,” she said
to pre-empt a discussion.
“I’ll stay and keep you company,” I said as everyone was putting on their coats.
“But your Negroni,” said Bruce’s aunt. “I know, I’ll get it to go.”
“You can’t get liquor to go,” chastised Bruce’s Dad.
“She can,” answered Bruce’s uncle.
The whole group left for dinner, their mission of returning with a Negroni turning the excursion into an adventure, not just an excuse to eat.
And so, as the door swung silently closed Frannie and I found ourselves alone in the visitors’ waiting room of the I.C.U. on the last night of Bruce’s life. Visiting hours had long since ended, but the staff had pretty much given us the run of the place. Matters were clearly reaching a conclusion and I suppose they figured there was no harm.
“Hey, Cuz, why don’t you lie down over here?” I crossed the room and sprawled out on the blue vinyl-covered couch, resting my head in Frannie’s lap. Her nails felt good as she gently scratched my scalp and my mind started replaying the previous few days as I stared at the drop ceiling overhead. Considering the life-and-death seriousness of the situation, there had been an awful lot of laughter in that brightly-lit room on upper 5th Avenue.
A week earlier, shortly after Bruce had checked in, a Scrabble game was underway in the waiting room. Bruce’s Mom gave a sly little smile and started to place her tiles on the board, announcing that, including the double-word bonus, she had 42 points. We watched in anticipation as she spelled out J-E-W-B-O-Y.
No way! It’s not really a word and, if it were, it would be hyphenated, we challenged. Besides, you can’t leave that word lying around on a Scrabble board at Mt. Sinai! After startling several arriving visitors with “Jew boy should be hyphenated, right?” we finally acquiesced and granted Bruce’s Mom her 42 points.
A couple of days later his Dad and I were talking in the waiting room. I had my feet up on the coffee table that was filled with outdated magazines and somehow mentioned I had been the organist and choir director in my church all during high school. “Wait a minute,” he said, cutting me off in a melodramatic stop-the-presses manner. “You mean you’re not Jewish?” As if this fact was somehow going to be a problem at this point.
As things became more and more grim we realized we needed to make some decisions. Everyone in the family was fine with my wish to have Bruce cremated, but they weren’t sure how his Mom would feel about it. I worked it so the two of us were alone in the waiting room and, screwing up my courage, explained to her that, shortly after we met, Bruce and I had gone to their house by the ocean in Rhode Island. We took a bottle of champagne to the beach on a cold, gray December day and talked and talked. It’s when we knew we were in love. I told her I wanted him cremated so, at some point in the future, our ashes could be scattered together on that beach.
“I just want to know one thing,” she said, looking at me exactly like a protective mother would. “Did you guys buy the champagne yourselves or did you take it out of my pantry?” Laughing, I jumped out of my seat and crossed the room to hug her.
“What is it, cuz?”
Frannie’s question brought me back to the present. I guess I must have been sniffling a little; she wiped a tear from underneath my eye as my head lay in her lap.
“When this is all over I just hope, well, I still want to be part of the family.”
Frannie’s hand grabbed a clump of my hair and she gave it a gentle tug. “Huh! You’re not getting rid of us that easy!”
I sat upright and turned to face her.
“That easy?!”
We stared at each other long enough for the total absurdity of what she had said sunk in and then we simultaneously burst out laughing. We were in the throws of hilarity when the door opened and the group came back in from dinner. Bruce’s aunt led the way flourishing a cardboard coffee cup in each hand.
“One martini to go,” she said, handing a cup to Frannie. “And one Negroni, as promised.”
The cocktails made Frannie and me even giddier and caught us up with the drinking that had gone on at dinner, all of which served to increase the volume of our conversation significantly. When the nurse came in to ask us all to hold it down a little, we decided we should probably call it a night. We knew they’d call us if anything dramatic happened during the night.
And it did. They called several hours later and we all made our way back to the hospital. Not a heck of a lot of laughter during that visit, as I recall.
I still feel my spirits dip every year as April 18 approaches. But enough time has passed so that my strongest memory of that night involves an unfinished crossword puzzle, a lot of laugher and a Negroni in a cardboard cup.
How to make the perfect Negroni: 1 ounce each Campari, sweet vermouth and vodka. Stir with ice and pour into a cardboard to-go coffee cup. Serve under fluorescent lights and garnish with a lemon twist and laughter.
WINDS FROM THE SOUTH
Two millennia ago the Roman elite went by barge across the Bay of Naples to one of the most beautiful islands in the world, a journey that took most of the day. In the final decade of the 20th century, I found myself making the same trip, but I traveled above the surface of the water in a hydrofoil and I would arrive less than an hour after pushing off from the pier in Napoli. My reason for going to Capri, however, was very different from that of the Caesars: they went to shed their cares. I was going to leave some of my late husband’s ashes.
I say “husband” because, long before the issue of same-sex marriage entered the national debate, there was really no other word to define the relationship Bruce and I shared. It was intimate and lovely. We had private jokes that only we understood; we fought about sex and money, something understood by every married couple.
Bruce had died from AIDS five months before, which meant we never got to take the trip to southern Italy that was to be our next vacation. So I decided to go alone.
We had traveled extensively, and I had wanted to share with him this wonderful, lemony island, which had counted among its guests not just the Caesars but such diverse personalities as Somerset Maugham and Clark Gable. And Bruce would be able to practice his (very) limited Italian. As expressive and animated as he was, he could never quite wrap his mouth around “grazie.” He would veer from “gracias” to “graziass,” never landing on the correct pronunciation, until he finally settled on an all-purpose “grah…,” letting the recipient of his thanks fill in the rest mentally. The waiters generally understood what he meant by “grah…”, and he would beam like a little boy at his new-found ability. (He did, once, manage to form the word correctly and with a perfect Italian accent. The hotel-keep in Madrid was mightily impressed.)
On this trip I stayed at the Hotel Caesar Augustus which, in 1996, was still an elegant but slightly dilapidated relic of the halcyon days before the war. Its ochre stucco arches opened onto a terrace that boasted a spectacular—if vertiginous—view. The azure sea lay a dizzying 1,000 feet below, and spotlights mounted on the cliff just beneath the terrace illuminated the hotel’s clean art-deco lines.
I decided I would toss Bruce’s ashes off that terrace on the final night of my stay, which I thought would be a fitting end to my trip.
For three days I moped around Capri. One evening I dined in an empty restaurant which the night before had hummed with a chorus of German and English voices. I asked where everyone had gone and was told, “But, it is the Scirocco!” Like an actor making a well-rehearsed entrance, the fabled wind from North Africa had arrived perfectly on schedule bringing with it a faint hint of spice and mystery as well as a never-ceasing breeze. It rose and fell in intensity, but never, ever stopped.
On my last night there I had dinner and drank too much wine. As I wandered back to the hotel, I tried to think of anything but the task ahead.
