Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

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