It’s December now and the Season of Joy is upon us! In Mid-town Manhattan this constitutes a no-holds-barred, cannibalistic fist fight to the death. Raggedy consumers drag their beaten bodies (their clothes hanging like the tattered shrouds of a ghost ship’s sails) from gift shop to beleaguering gift shop in search of that perfect something for that special someone. Through the grinding gauntlet of blood-strewn streets the exhausted soul slouches through the boulevard of the shadow of death and at every turn- the gnashing of teeth, the blaring of bus horns, the stabbing cold and a thousand Santa Clauses, bellowing that ominous, merry chuckle like a legion of evil Nordic clowns. And finally, the thrashed pilgrim finds their way into the glittering doorway of Zemblanity. At which point, I inform them of our FOUR HOUR WAIT. No, sir, I am not joking. I am deadly serious.
Ho. Ho... Ho.
The epilepsy inducing glut of spectacular holiday decorations went up the day after Halloween, an obscenely early date by any rational standard. Christmas trees in every grotesque shade of neon hang upside down from the ceilings. Vast confusions of lights, tinsel and fake holly are smooshed into every conceivable corner. And far in the back of the restaurant, there is a tree so bewilderingly and blindingly pink that it defies comparison. Henceforth, if I ever need to describe something as very pink, I will (hyperbolically, of course) compare it to that flabbergastingly pink, twinkling phallus in the heart of Zemblanity.
Digression: Today I saw the Governor of Alabama, Rob Riley, sitting next to this flamboyant tree. His security detail stood outside in the cold, snickering at seeing so powerful a man dwarfed by the supremely gayest incarnation of Christian holiday ever dreamed up in the minds of men. I wondered something similar when Sarah Palin was in. What is so conservative a politician doing in so gay a restaurant? This was one of the first places that was safe for gays in the city. There was, upstairs, where the offices are now, a room full of cots where fellows would indulge themselves with other fellows without fear of a police raid. And here is the Governor of Alabama and the ex-Governor of Alaska, beaming, shaking hands and posing for photographs in front of the fruitiest Christmas Tree in history. [End Digression]
And folk see fit to wait for four to FIVE hours to eat in this exaggeration of Christmas. Why? More and more, I have been troubled by this question. While at first, it was merely amusing or interesting from a sociological perspective, it has begun to make me more and more uneasy. What is wrong with these people? Why do they subject themselves to such an excruciating test of endurance?
Sometimes a person will get truly angry at me. They have waited in the freezing rain for three hours and I inform them that they have an hour yet to wait. They will explode upon me, demanding to see the list of names, making outrageous claims that all the people who checked in with them have already eaten (although this is obviously and sometimes hilariously false). They see me as a figurehead of this miserable and inexplicable process and they hate me (HATE ME) for it. I have to become a rock that ocean breaks itself against. I think, "You chose to endure this. It's your own dumb fault for waiting this long for something you only suppose is worthwhile. Your misery is your own problem and has nothing to do with me."
But this attitude is not very in keeping with Christmas spirit, is it? More often, I feel a true sense of compassion for these poor fools. More and more, I have taken it upon myself to become an entertainer at the host stand. I perch at the podium and, in an attempt to ameliorate the hardship of the wait, loudly regale the claustrophobic crush of patrons with bizarre, funny and pseudo-mystical stories, the same stories I relate to you, dear reader.
In a sometimes futile attempt to turn the wait into a worthwhile experience, I describe the lobby as the busiest square feet in all of Manhattan. I compare it to a submarine or a subway car. I tell them of Andy Warhol and Marilyn Monroe, of Oprah and Jude Law, of the 25,000 dollar desert or the World's Largest Hot Chocolate. I plunder the recesses of my memory for interesting tales from these very blogs, in a desperate attempt to foster the feeling that, Yes, we are all fools and yet, we are doing something entirely unique and entirely New York-ish.
I ask the multitude of hungry souls if we should all go stand over the tables and watch the people as they eat. Maybe we will scowl and point at our watches. Or what if we turned over an hourglass on the table? Would they get the F-ing hint? Or what if we just screamed "We're Hungry!" at the top of our lungs? Would that help?
When everyone in the lobby looks at each other with knowing glances, when everyone in the lobby laughs at the same time or says "Wow" together, I feel warm in my heart, an honest glow. And back at table eleven, a tiny, beautiful little girl laughs a laugh so loud and pure that even the hardest and most cynical of Zemblanity employees can't help but grin. And outside, it is beginning to snow, the first of the season.
And on my way home, I will buy a Christmas Tree out of my bribes. It will be the first tree my wife and I have ever had together. And she will pin a picture of her beloved and recently departed pug, Pierre, at the top. Pierre was an angel of dogs and loved Christmas Trees more than anyone.
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