Laid Bare: Essays and Observations Judson, Tom (books successful people read .TXT) š
Book online Ā«Laid Bare: Essays and Observations Judson, Tom (books successful people read .TXT) šĀ». Author Judson, Tom
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, Iād 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 HOSPITALā¦
āDoes anyone know a 10-letter word for ādazzlingā?ā
It was the only clue left in the puzzle, which was surprising, considering the company that night. I was met with a chorus of ānoā and āwe gave up on that one,ā 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. Frannieās was a martini with a twist and Bruceās sister preferred wine to hard liquor. Bruceās mom said if she had to pick something it would be champagne. I was in Frannieās court, although I usually garnish my martinis with an olive.
Then Bruceās 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 hadnāt been able to acquire a taste for the bitter ruby-red aperitif. Tonight there was an āycchā from this part of the room and a āno thanksā from over there, but there were no takers on Campari as a favorite.
Bruceās 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.
āWell, youāve obviously never had a Negroni,ā was her response.
We all admitted that was true.
Bruceās uncle came into the waiting room and picked up the newspaper.
āDoes anyone knowā¦ā
āIām talking,ā scolded Shelley, as her husband sat with the Times resting on one knee. āA Negroni is Campari, sweet vermouth and vodka. Itās a wonderful cocktail.ā
This endorsement, coming from someone who puts pepper on her oatmeal, left me dubious, but I promised Iād try one at dinner.
āSo, whatās a ten-letter wordā¦ā
āWe donāt know!ā answered the group in unison. āIf we knew we would have filled it in,ā said Bruceās sister.
āCāmon, dinner!ā announced Bruceās Dad. Iām hungry.
As well stood up to leave Frannie said sheād just wait here.
āBut you need to eat something.ā
āJust bring me back something,ā she said. āAnything, I donāt care,ā she said to pre-empt a discussion.
āIāll stay and keep you company,ā I said as everyone was putting on their coats.
āBut your Negroni,ā said Bruceās aunt. āI know, Iāll get it to go.ā
āYou canāt get liquor to go,ā chastised Bruceās Dad.
āShe can,ā answered Bruceās 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 visitorsā waiting room of the I.C.U. on the last night of Bruceās 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.
āHey, Cuz, why donāt you lie down over here?ā I crossed the room and sprawled out on the blue vinyl-covered couch, resting my head in Frannieās 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. Bruceās 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! Itās not really a word and, if it were, it would be hyphenated, we challenged. Besides, you canāt leave that word lying around on a Scrabble board at Mt. Sinai! After startling several arriving visitors with āJew boy should be hyphenated, right?ā we finally acquiesced and granted Bruceās 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. āWait a minute,ā he said, cutting me off in a melodramatic stop-the-presses manner. āYou mean youāre not Jewish?ā As if this fact was somehow going
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