Theater Tickets
We arrived at the Lucerne Hotel at 5:33pm; three minutes past the agreed time because you’re lying if you say you can ignore a Christmas Tree stand on a New York City Street. Yes, they are charming, but that is not what causes the stop. It’s for the teeny trees and the search for the real Christmas miracle: a two-foot tree under $80. Ba-dum-ch! Back to the Lucerne. The hotel lobby was adorned with what I can only guess were $300, decorated trees, giving the marble foyer a festive and warm feeling. We entered the elevator and pressed 9, illuminating the round button which now twinkled much like the ornaments of the lobby trees. Which, maybe now that I think of it, could have been north of $500. I have no gauge on this subject anymore.
My parents were waiting in their room, a small spread of Zabar’s cheese and crackers set out on the table. A football game was happening on the TV. Muted though, so my mother could play Vince Garaldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas album. After twenty minutes or so of small talk and about a third of a Brie wedge, we decided to take the party downstairs to the restaurant adjoining the hotel: Nice Matin. Since I moved to my neighborhood, I had been eyeing this restaurant. The white-linen, bistro is positively the spot where Sondheim got his inspiration for the banger of a tune “Ladies Who Lunch.” I can see him walking down Amsterdam Avenue on a gorgeous Spring day. He gets stopped at the 79th St. light. While awaiting the light to change, Sondheim looks over his left shoulder where he spots tables of coupled women. Each splitting a bottle of wine. He looks down at his watch - 2:04pm. No salads for these ladies, only full, hot entrees. Women with theater tickets and berets. I, like Sondheim, had watched these women dine with such luxe. Servers placed gorgeous, golden rolls on bread plates with tongs. Tongs! No fingies allowed. And now, it was my turn to have a roll. My turn to place that white linen napkin on my undeserving lap.
The hostess welcomed us, took our coats, and led us to our table. It was a four-top by the window, allowing us to glance at passersby. Many of which had Christmas trees in tow. I wanted to yell out to them, “That tree is $20 at Home Depot!” But, alas. Our waiter came by and asked for drink orders, though I could barely focus. I spotted him from across the room. Bread basket and tongs in hand. The moment played in slow motion: tong into basket, roll out of basket, roll placed on bread plate, tong back up. The roll was warm and smelled just like Rue de St. Germaine at dawn: the boulangeries baking their daily batches of baguettes. I mean, it didn’t smell like Wonder Bread out of the toaster, so I can only assume the alternative. I was preparing to tear into my gorgeous bread nugget when my mom interrupted my trance, “The show is at 8 - right?” “Yeah, I am pretty sure. You have the tickets though,” I responded. “Well, let me just check.” It felt rude to ravage my roll before the others, so I begrudgingly folded my hands in my lap while I watched my mother rifle through her purse for the tickets. She unfolded the printed out TicketMaster slips and squinted, “I can’t see that. What does it say?” extending the small print to me and my youthful eyes. “7.” Oh no. I checked my watch: 6:41. “We gotta go!”
The four of us sprung from the table and headed toward the exit, scooping our coats on the way. “Wait!” I rushed back to the table, grabbed two rolls, one for each pocket and shoved them in. “Let’s go!” I would have to wait a little longer to be a lady who lunched.
We burst out onto 79th St., almost getting nailed by a couple carrying, I’m going to say, a $1200 tree? We jogged towards the 1 train, until the pace felt too slow and we began to sprint. My mom was shoving tickets our way, “Go without us!” The tone exactly that of a fellow soldier who was shot in combat and urging their troop-mate to leave them behind. But, being the good soldiers that we are, we stayed together as a group. We trotted down the cement stairs of the station and looked up to see the train arriving, as if it knew we had made a catastrophic scheduling mistake. The 1 train was full to the brim; the crowd separating our foursome. I maintained eye contact with my parents so they knew when to free themselves from the train car. The train announcer muttered something to the effect of “Times Square 42nd St.”
In perfect Times Square fashion, a group of four Elmos greeted us as we emerged from the underground station - shattering my childhood understanding of there being only one gorgeous, red puppet. I hate to say it, but I do love Times Square. Maybe “love,” is too strong a word, but I am enchanted by Times Square. It is, as Lizzie McGuire says in the movie of the same name, “what dreams are made of.” And I do believe that right where 42nd St crosses with Broadway, under the lights of the giant screens, displaying ads for seasonal Aerie underwear, is where dreams are baked. I of course didn’t have time to appreciate the magic of the spot, because it was 4 minutes until curtain. We needed to haul ass.
The Schubert Theater has the most iconic marquee. One that has sported the titles of many a Broadway hit, including “A Chorus Line,” “Pal Joey,” and the most recent revival of “Hello Dolly.” Tonight, it was Aaron Sorkin’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Much to my mother’s delight, the show’s star was Jeff Daniels - her celebrity crush since the 1983 depressing mother, daughter film “Terms of Endearment.” She loves this movie, which I have made a deliberate decision to not unpack. We threw ourselves into our velvet seats just as the lights began to dim. Show time!
The show began and we were immediately swept into Great Depression-era Alabama. The production had everything one could want from a Broadway show - wit, intrigue, stars moving their own props, men who were dragged there by their wives falling asleep, and a 43 year-old playing the 6 year-old star. When the curtain touched the wooden stage, concluding the story, the audience burst out of the chairs and, I’m pretty certain, out of their shoes as well. I am a bitch for a curtain call, so naturally my eyes dampened with appreciation and awe.
We navigated the gauntlet of fellow audience members, tired ushers, and forgotten Playbills and all of a sudden were back on Broadway. The lights just as bright as before, as if no time had passed. I usually love a good post-show discussion, dare I say as much or more than my dad likes to unpack the fourth quarter rushing yards after a Rams game. Tonight though, something was distracting me. What was it? Why did I feel a pit in my stomach? And then I remembered - I was absolutely famished. I frantically shoved my hands into my pockets. Two rolls met my frail, under-nourished fingers, and I muttered to myself, “Hell yeah.” It was a perfect night at the theater.