Pam and I met on a movie called Mickey Blue Eyes in 1999. It was a two day job that turned into two weeks, bonding us quickly.
The theme was an Italian mafia wedding held at the palace of poor taste, Leonards of Great Neck, famous for their cookie-cutter ceremonies where heavy-set women wear the same dress, dance to More and Moon River next to a 6 foot banana rum cake with their likeness in miniature. It was the perfect setting complete with a fish bar sporting an ice sculpture of Moby Dick that at the end of 10 days, smelled as if he were there… decomposing.
As wedding guests, we sat at the same table day after day as Hugh Grant, James Caan and a host of others hit their marks laughing our little underpaid asses off.
We’ve been pals ever since, a friendship cherished for its natural flow. We don’t see each often, more of an email connection right now…but it doesn’t make it any less glorious when we do.
Pam is probably one of the nicest people I know..bighearted, dependable. If I called her day or night to say, I need you, she’d come, in her pajamas with a pizza and bottle of wine under her arm.
She’s also a happy girl, my age, living life to the fullest. A real teacher for me who tends to isolate, hiding beneath the sheets saving adventure for another day.
She came to visit over the weekend, driving us to a little joint we like on the Upper West Side. Over cheap wine and bruschetta dripping in olives and capers, we caught up on all our business, again giggling as if we were twelve.
We then took a ride to the village along 5th Avenue where just one day after Thanksgiving, Christmas had arrived. The colossal Swarovski star was swinging on 57th, while the giant candy canes were already flanking Bergdorf.
Saks looked like the Ziegfeld Follies, while the tree, though still unlit, loomed at Rockefeller Center.
What stopped us in mid traffic were the oh too bright lights at Tiffany seeming as if P.T. Barnum had come back from the dead. Tiffany, the classiest building in town, suddenly looked like Coney Island causing us to duck and cover.
“What the fuck?” I said, picturing Audrey Hepburn eating her Danish with her eyes closed.
“We should write to the Times to complain,” Pam said, crying she was laughing so hard. “I mean, I could’a had an accident.”
When we finally made our way back, sated with laughs, memories and just a good dose of old New York, we hugged promising to do it all again real soon.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment thinking…how lucky I am to have a girlfriend like Pam.