2 . . . Winter Wonderland

Although it had nothing to do with Chanukah, the card was from David and included a handwritten note on the back. 

“Coffee(ish) beverages will be provided as an incentive.  It’s like turtle soup, Tiny.  Don’t think about it.  Just be there. – DB”

I am proud to say that I don’t throw the threatened conniption fit.  In fact, I mention to Marjorie how cool it is being invited to a celebrity party, and we go on to speculate whether anybody super-famous will be in attendance – like Bruce Springsteen, perhaps, since they’re all Jersey boys. 

Poor Marjorie even wonders about Ed Asner, but I crush those dreams before they get out of control.

Personally, I’m more curious as to whether Jon Bon Jovi and his girlfriend will be there.   Even if I can just get close to him and absorb some of that self-assured testosterone…

Anyway, I still have no idea who the guests are – or why I am one – as I step from the taxi in front of the Mandarin at six forty-five on Christmas Eve.

As Grinchy as I’ve been, even I am not immune to that stillness that you only find on Christmas Eve.  These are the few precious hours each year when the world holds its breath, and you can almost believe something magical is about to happen.

I rub at the goosebumps under my long wool coat, telling myself that the illusion of serenity is not actually the world teetering on the precipice of magic.  At this time of evening, most everyone is home with their families to prepare for Santa’s arrival.  Those that aren’t have found parties of friends or co-workers, where they are getting jovially trashed with the knowledge that they can sleep in tomorrow.

Regardless of the source or what would happen in the hours before and after midnight, Manhattan is currently as quiet as you will ever find it.

I pause on the nearly-deserted sidewalk and sneak a quick look around to be certain no one is around.  There are only a couple of people in the area who aren’t paying attention to me.    

My inner Cindy Lou Who really wants to believe Santa’s ride is going to streak across a full moon in full silhouette, and I steal a quick glance up at the sky  – and what do you think happens?  Cue the fine folks at the Hallmark Channel, because a single snowflake lands on my cheek. 

It isn’t only silence that will blanket the big city tonight. Making Irving Berlin proud, New York is going to have a white Christmas this year.

Stuffing Cindy Lou back into Santa’s bag, I slowly stride into the Mandarin’s lobby.  The pencil heels of my tall suede boots tap over the marble in time to an elevator music rendition of “Winter Wonderland”.  Good old Irving is on a roll tonight, and it suits not only the pending weather but the wintry décor in the hotel. 

White lights, candles and poinsettias are strategically placed among evergreen to create a look of cool elegance throughout the area and it reminds me that I’m about to hobnob with someone who can afford the fourteen-thousand-dollar-a-night price tag on the Oriental Suite. 

Yes, I Googled it.  I tried to stop myself from being that nosy, but morbid curiosity got the best of me.  Trust me when I say I’ll be inspecting the place thoroughly to see what warrants that kind of moolah.

I covertly scan the area for elevators with the tops of the boots brushing my coat’s hem.  Between the two, I am completely enshrouded in black from neck to toe, and that color scheme carries from my outerwear to my sedately sexy dress right on down to my undies.

Not exactly holiday festive, but no woman ever went wrong by wearing a little black dress.  I figure my loose ash blonde waves and diamond hoop earrings add a splash of light to the ensemble.  No one will be mistaking me for Santa Claus, but I won’t get falsely identified as the Grim Reaper, either.  

Finally locating the elevators, I step inside one of the fancy schmancy cars with its wooden floor and brass rails and punch the button for the fifty-second floor.  The vertical chariot doesn’t magically whisk me away to the Oriental Suite, however.  The stupid button won’t even light up. 

What did light up was the key card slot right beside it, and I’m pretty sure it’s mocking my peasant status with its repetitive flash of red. 

Okay.  I clearly need a magic card to get upstairs.  This strikes me as odd, considering there’s a party up there, but fine. 

Me and my cute but uncomfortable boots saunter leisurely out of the elevator as though this was the plan all along, and I smile at an older couple who is obviously returning from their own holiday soiree. 

Nothing to see here folks.  Just a woman from the Bronx proving how inept she is in the ways of the Upper West Side. 

I take my saunter to the front desk, where the clerk on duty is quick to grace me with a courteous and freakishly white smile.  “How may I help you?”

Feeling inept on the inside is one thing.  Showing it is a whole different ballgame.  I will eat one of my knee-high boots before radiating anything but composed confidence to the young man whose nametag reads “Grant”. 

Even if his suit probably cost more than my entire ensemble tonight.

“Hello, Grant,” I greet with a smile that’s just a tad condescending.  I’m a personal investment banker, remember.  That means I deal with wealthy people every day.  I know how they roll, and the well-dressed flunky will never realize I’m not one of them.  “I’m attending a function in the Oriental Suite, but my host neglected to mention I’d need a keycard to get upstairs.”

Attentive eyes shoot briefly to a spot beneath the counter before lifting back to mine.  “May I ask your name?”

Recalling the inscription on the invitation, I supply, “Valentine.”

That’s the magic word. 

Word.  Name.  Whatever.  It does the trick. 

With a capable flick of the wrist, Grant produces a key card as though he’s been waiting all evening for my arrival.  Who knows?  Maybe he has.  That’s what these guys are paid for, right?

“Here you are, Ms. Valentine,” he offers with just the right amount of deference for someone of his position.  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Other than having yourself a lovely evening, not a thing.  Thank you, Grant.”

The desk clerk hits the high beams on that brilliant white smile.  “Thank you, ma’am.  You as well.”

I spin on the ball of my foot with a nod of acknowledgement. 

The holiday season must finally be seeping into my veins, because I don’t even want to rip the kid a new neck hole for calling me “ma’am”.  I simply retrace my steps back to the elevator, where I force-feed my newly acquired card to the condescending red lights. 

The sense of satisfaction I got when they morph to a soothing shade of solid green was a little over the top, but…

Neener, neener, neener.  Fuck you, snotty elevator.  Grant knows I belong here. 

All of this internal conversation is inane, ridiculous and every other nonsensical word in the dictionary.  I’m very much aware of that, but it passes the time and keeps my mind occupied with something besides what I’ve been pondering for the last twenty-four hours. 

Why am I here?

With no answer readily available in the eight-foot square box, I shut my mind down except for the thought it requires to hum “Winter Wonderland” to myself.  The fifty-one floors pass swiftly, and it seems like only seconds later when the doors glide open with a gentle whoosh. 

Rather than the traditional hotel hallway however, the Oriental Suite boasts its own private foyer, which creates the illusion of a private residence instead of a nightly rental. 

I step out of the car and pause.  

The air here is as still and expectant as that on the street.  While that’s a lovely continuation of the whole Christmas Eve miracle mindset, it’s also weird.  Why is there no noise?  Shouldn’t there be music or party chatter coming from the other side of the black lacquer door?  A television?  Piano?  Something?

Yet there isn’t. 

The only discernible sound is the scrape of wool as I shift my stance, and it’s almost… eerie. 

My mind races through all the celebrity news I’ve heard in the last weeks.  Was there any mention of David Bryan splitting up with his wife?  Surely Jon isn’t passing me along to his friend as a “get reacquainted with the fucking scene” date? 

Oh, Jesus. 

The pencil heels make no sound on the rug, preserving the silence that’s at such odds with the clatter going on inside my head. 

What am I going to do in that case?  There’s something yucky about fooling around with men that are close friends, because you just know they talk trash about the girl afterward.  Good trash or bad, it’s still trash, and I’m not sure I want to be the butt of locker room – backstage – jokes between the two.

Yes, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself, but for crying out loud.  I work with numbers all day.  I can see when things don’t add up, and this doesn’t add up to a “holiday gathering”.  The hair standing up on my arms tells me there’s something else afoot, and it isn’t reindeer hooves on the rooftop.

Instinct and logic tell me I should just go.  Turn right around, feed the snotty elevator and throw the card at Grant on my way back out the door.  That’s what would be the wisest possible choice.

Yet I can’t stop staring at that damn door. 

Normal people are scared of eerie silence.  Me?  I can’t help but wonder what’s lurking on the other side of that quiet door.  I am totally the person you yell at in the movie theater, saying, “NO!  Don’t go in there!”.

I figure the worst possible scenario involves me telling David Bryan I don’t want to sleep with him.  I sure as hell don’t think he’s lured me to my untimely demise.  He’s just not the serial killer type. 

Drawing a deep breath, I step forward and stab the buzzer before I talk myself out of it again. 

I was promised coffee-ish drinks.  Through the power of caffeine, I can endure all and-

My inane mental shenanigans screech to a halt when I hear the lock pop and the door handle move.  Pasting on a polite I’d-love-a-drink-but-don’t-plan-on-fucking-me smile, I patiently wait for the door to swing inward.  When it does…

You might as well just stick a feather duster up my ass and call me a turkey.