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

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.

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