The Golden Christmas Dugat

Certainly Dr. Krommbach never expected sex on Christmas Eve, though perhaps the telephone should have forewarned him. It rang constantly, always with some thick tongue at the other end. "Ida, sweetie pie!" On any other day, Dr. Krommbach would have turned on WQXR very loud to drown out rings invariably addressed to someone else.

But on December 24th, the telephone decided the greeting card. If, in the year preceding, Dr. Krommbach's son Theodore had called twice or more, Dr. Krommbach would add a personal note to the printed text of the card. However, Theo had called just once so far, back in April, and had spoken so hurriedly Dr. Krommbach couldn't understand the name of his new grandchild. Now, on Christmas Eve, at 3:05 p.m., the telephone shrilled again--this time for a La Mañana Liquor Store. Theo's chance had expired. Dr. Krommbach uncapped the fountain pen to sign "Father." Nothing more. He affixed the airmail stamp, plus an underlined Airmail sticker to alert an all too frequently delinquent postal system. The only other clerical chore before the trip downtown was typing out an explanation to the new reverend.

To the Reverend of Saint Philip the Apostle:

The enclosed gold ducat is worth by yesterday's quotation a little more than 20 (twenty) dollars. It is donated by the undersigned on behalf of Frau Emma Philip of Vienna, who kept the undersigned and his son Theo hidden for two days, November 9th to November 11th, 1938, the so-called Crystal Night pogrom of the Hitler era.

On departing for the U.S.A., the undersigned was given by Frau Philip a gold ducat so that a church in the New World would light candles in the memory of Frau Philip's mother, deceased on Christmas Eve. The undersigned did this on arrival in this country in 1939 and has repeated the custom ever since with independently obtained ducats at the Church of Saint Philip the Apostle. Frau Philip's mother was named Emma Heugl. If the ducat is sold at a future date, its value should increase in view of the upward tendency of gold. Yours sincerely, Dr. Abraham Krommbach

Dr. Krommbach polished the laurel-laced profile of Emperor Franz Joseph. Nowadays, even dealers on Madison Avenue sold coins in dulled condition. This new inattentive priest might disregard the note and confuse an indifferent-looking ducat with some sort of big penny. Dr. Krommbach placed the gleaming disk in his purse, which he buttoned into the pickpocketproof right inside pocket of his jacket. Next the thermometer outside his window was to be consulted through the magnifying glass. Forty-six degrees. To that figure three degrees must be added, for such was the difference in temperature between Riverside Drive and Broadway. Dr. Krommbach decided on the lighter of his two overcoats and on the silk rather than the wool scarf. The card to Theo he posted on West End Avenue, where collections were unjustifiably more frequent than at the Riverside Drive mailbox; and, on walking to Broadway, he experienced frosty gusts that made him wish for the heavier coat after all. A certain contraction troubled his bladder.

However, this passed and the southbound bus for which Dr. Krommbach often recorded waiting periods up to 17 minutes came auspiciously fast. Dr. Krommbach did not observe his Jewish faith (cultural pride in it was a different matter), nor was he a romanticizer of Christianity. But he did like auspiciousness on Christmas Eve. There was something auspicious about the Church of Saint Philip the Apostle, and not merely in its name for which Dr. Krommbach had selected it years ago. Saint Philip's held an auspicious afternoon Mass (in addition to the midnight one), so Dr. Krommbach could avoid the dark and also take advantage of the pre-four p.m. senior-citizen discount on the bus.

Furthermore, there had been something auspicious about the portly priest officiating at Saint Philip's for so many Christmas Eves. He had an accent like that little Irish film actor. "Och, God bless you, sir, yours or ours," he used to say to Dr. Krommbach. "It sure wouldn't be Christmas without you." But last year, of course, the new priest had appeared at Mass, a much younger man with thin fingers drumming against his vestments. This person hadn't seemed to understand the purpose of Dr. Krommbach's ducat. In fact, he had looked so uninterested Dr. Krommbach had not asked where the facility for gentlemen was in the rather pretentiously remodeled church.

Dr. Krommbach wondered if he should place his address on the upper-left-hand corner. But in these peculiar times, it was better not to give away too much information. At any rate, Dr. Krommbach's vision could not support writing in the jolting twilight of the bus. And as he debarked into the winds of West 46th Street, he realized that the vehicle's bad springs had bumped awake in his bladder his need for a lavatory.

On bygone Christmas Eves, when Dr. Krommbach had traveled downtown with his ducat, the Great White Way had seemed almost tropical, quite warmer than the Upper West Side. But now Times Square reminded him of--well, of some circus stranded in the arctic. The neon lights stabbed like icicles, puckered the skin under Dr. Krommbach's gloves. Low hard whistles darted from crevices in walls. Through his soles, the pavement struck icily into his very bladder. Saint Philip the Apostle was still more than two cross-town blocks distant. Dr. Krommbach concluded that he would have to use a facility soon. But in all the bars along the way there leaned Negro dandies whose broad-brimmed hats obscured rashes caught (presumably) from the very ladies these pimps offered so garishly on the sidewalks. Around the corner of West 45th Street, however, Dr. Krommbach noticed some white men in solid-gray overcoats (two were carrying briefcases) leave a restaurant. It seemed to be a very modern establishment, for Dr. Krommbach's watering eyes could not discover a sign. Since he was under considerable internal pressure, he decided to go in. He found himself in a magazine store opening into nothing less providential than a public lavatory with booths.

It was really like a Christmas gift. Dr. Krommbach appreciated how rare public conveniences were in New York. Rarer still was the fact that the place looked clean, without offensive smells. A loud-speaker tinkled, and though Dr. Krommbach did not care for the Rudolph Reindeer song, he thought it an amiable gesture. A tall man, equally amiable, pointed to a booth.

"You can lock it, Pop."

Inside the booth, Dr. Krommbach found a second door with a slot saying 25¢. Of course; a civilized convenience like this could not be expected to be free in America. Dr. Krommbach inserted a quarter. And he didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.

It was too late, even though he knew instantly, from the very clink, that it was his gold ducat that had dropped down. His heart pounded, but the door, too, the door in front of him, responded to the calamity. It developed a burning point in the middle, an aperture, to be exact, which lit up and twitched furiously, and Dr. Krommbach, astounded, realized that in front of him was not the gate to a pay toilet at all but a hole through which a film could be viewed.

Instinctively he bent forward and there was a nude bony Asiatic woman on her spread knees, riding (to put it mildly) on the mouth of a mulatto female while a white woman occupied herself with the breasts of the Asian, their various lipstick-smeared mouths rigidly open to display ecstasy and the heaving ribs of these much-too-thin bodies making the spectacle even more squalid.

His gold ducat had unleashed that!

Dr. Krommbach recoiled, turned, fled, but in his rush mishandled the lock; he pushed the hook down instead of up, and when he realized the error and tried to open the door properly, the hook was jammed fast into the loop. Once more Dr. Krommbach tried, but he could not exert enough leverage in the cramped twilight, and the sound track of the film, its groans and whispered slang expressions, undermined his strength. The hook would simply not budge from the loop, though Dr. Krommbach sprained his already rheumatic left thumb in the effort. He did find the lighter in his pocket (he still carried his old Viennese lighter, though he had had to give up cigars years ago), yet even the blunt end of this instrument could not hammer the hook out of the loop. Meanwhile, the Asiatic female had begun to yodel in what sounded like orgiastic Malaysian, and Dr. Krommbach knew he had to start shouting himself.

"Sir!" he called. "Sir! Anybody! I must get out!"

"What's the matter, Pop?"

"The hook is jammed!"

"What?"

"I have put the wrong coin in the slot!"

"A slug? You upset the machine! What the fuck is the matter with this door?"

"I am imprisoned!"

"Stand back. Let me try! ... Shit."

"This place is improperly identified!"

"Now, take it easy, Pop."

"I am due at the Church of Saint Philip! You had better inform the police!"

"I'll get the mechanic."

"I am going to file a complaint!"

"Simmer down, Pop. Be right back."

"Hello! ... Hello, sir! ... Hello!"

The man was gone. Some terribly heavy breathing issued from the peephole. Then the three women blacked out into silence. Sure enough, Dr. Krommbach, who had adjusted to the dark, noticed another sign saying six Part series Quarter each. Dr. Krommbach, gathering strength from this respite, attacked the hook again just as the peephole began to burn and twitch and rasp anew. Yes, the three women reappeared, this time forming an abominable Y on a bed, tongues and orifices connecting with slurping ferocity. Such was the perverted power of the ducat that it unreeled the entire series, which otherwise demanded six separate coins! Dr. Krommbach was furious as well as appalled. He kicked at the peephole. If anything, this had a stimulating effect on the Chinese woman, who reared up buttocks first and once more crooned her adenoidal ecstasy. Dr. Krommbach, beyond thought, acting in sheer reflex, lashed out with his cane. The door flew open--the hook must have been knocked away.

Dr. Krommbach stood outside, in the aisle between the booths, trying to calm his lungs, leaning on his cane, whose handle had been badly scratched. Through his high breath Dr. Krommbach heard the tinkle of Rudolph the Reindeer, and when he consulted his watch (his wrist hurting as he turned it), the time was 4:37. He could not reach Saint Philip the Apostle for Mass, and even if he did, the gold ducat would still be here, driving those thin awful women through their contortions.

And there was nobody to help. The door of the establishment opened, not to admit the proprietor or the mechanic (Dr. Krommbach's one quickly diminishing hope for the retrieval of the ducat). A man in a long United States Army overcoat pitched in, together with frosty lights and shadows from Times Square. The disappointment added to the weight on Dr. Krommbach's bladder and threw the floor beneath into a tilt. He felt that without the ducat in Saint Philip's collection basket, without commemoration of Frau Emma Philip's kindness, the 20th Century, already faltering, would collapse altogether. The moral supports were melting and the flames of Times Square must consume the world.

Perhaps an irrational thought. Dr. Krommbach had to get away from the infectious insanity of the place. But he couldn't move toward the street, because the man in the overcoat extended his arm.

"Here's twenny cents," he said.

"I am not in charge here," Dr. Krommbach said.

"C'mon. What's the best lookiewookie?"

"You shall have to wait for the proprietor," Dr. Krommbach said, indignant at this new trial.

"Better gimme the nummer-one action!" the man said, advancing on Dr. Krommbach. He had a rather distinguished red beard, which deserved better (concluded on page 252)Golden Christmas Ducat(continued from page 114) than such a depraved, alcohol-clouded face. "Twenny cents cash. Plenny more where that came from."

"The booths are designed to accept quarters," Dr. Krommbach said.

He decided not to retreat, although the man had come still closer, his fist thrust at Dr. Krommbach.

"This a clip joint or something?"

"Look," Dr. Krommbach said, unretreating. "In the meanwhile, you can go into my booth."

"You gotta booth?" the man said.

"Over there, with the open door," Dr. Krommbach said. "The film is still running, because I inserted a special coin."

"'Kay. Here's twenny cents cash."

"No, thank you," Dr. Krommbach said.

"What's the matter, American money's not good enough?"

Less than ten centimeters away from Dr. Krommbach's nose, the two dimes gleamed in the ominous fist. But Dr. Krommbach found he could not take them. They were the day's final insult to his ducat.

"No, thank you, you are my guest, sir," Dr. Krommbach said. "It is Christmas."

"Oh, yeah," the man said. The huge hand dropped the dimes into the U. S. Army pocket and with the same motion pulled out a brown paper bag. "Attaboy, Christmas. Have a Christmas one on me."

"I limit myself to wines," Dr. Krommbach said.

"Aw, have a drink, brother! Jesus! 'Joy yourself."

It was too much. Dr. Krommbach could not improvise further defenses. He had to accept the brown paper bag with the bottle inside and lead it to his lips.

The taste was terrible. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you, brother," the man said. "Hey, bet that's a goody you got for me in there, huh?"

"I--I hope the feature is to your taste," Dr. Krommbach said. He received a smelly pat on the cheek. The man walked into the booth and Dr. Krommbach, at last free to leave, felt a warmth worming with surprising agreeableness down his throat and, at the same time, a distinct lessening in his bladder's burden. Plus an absurd impulse to give the note meant for the priest to the man in the booth. Absurd, but he felt there should be some sort of statement.

"I have drunk your drink in honor of a lady in Vienna," he said.

No answer came. He had not spoken loud enough to overcome Rudolph the Reindeer or the booth's noise, which had become a holiday present. Dr. Krommbach closed his eyes against the chill of the street, all the soiled frenzy outside. As he joined Christmas on Times Square, he tried to remember the last time someone had patted him on the cheek.