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

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