Joey and the Christmas pledge

Joey Romano glanced around at the Christmas decorations in Stanford’s Fine Dining, the priciest restaurant the town of 12,000 offered. Pretty nice, he thought; kind of old-fashioned. Old-fashioned St. Nicholas on the mantle; real Christmas tree with all colors of ornaments, and icicles draped on the branches; Christmas Creche. Reminds me of what Mom used to put up — how many years ago? Jeez … can’t believe how long she and Pop have been gone. And Peter …

The 60-ish recording and movie star drew plenty of stares from the other patrons — they didn’t see a celebrity every day, even at their high income level (for a town like Stanleyville,  N.J., at least). He sat with Nick Spolini, his long-time manager, and other guests at a large table off to the side, so the staring wouldn’t be too noticeable to him. He was used to it, yes, but too much of it could set him off into one of his tirades, which no one enjoyed, least of all Joey.

He was a Capricorn, which means Joey Romano was likely to notice other people and what they were doing —  an observer of life, as well as a participant who had made many, many things happen in his career.

Waitresses and busboys rushed to and fro in the big restaurant, taking orders, serving, clearing tables so John Stanford could make even more money — and so could the servers. Joey Romano studied each in turn — Pipe the good-looking little blonde, he thought; a few years ago I’d have … oh, well. And — wait a minute — something about that one busboy; stocky, little sloppy looking; wonder if he could be …

The stocky busboy was Clay Ledbetter. He did an acceptable job busing tables and washing dishes — usually — considering that his mental age was about 10. Birth defects 20 years ago, the doctors had said. Developmentally disabled. Wasn’t able to read; incompetent to drive a car. But, he was “good-hearted,” as his friends said. Always tried the best he could. Seemed to take kidding from the other busboys in stride. Well, in public he did.

“Hey, Jeff,” yelled busboy Todd Brown back in the kitchen. “What’s another word for Clay?”

“Mud!” yelled busboy Jeff, and everyone laughed. “Hey Todd, what’s ‘Ledbetter’ rhyme with?”

“Bedwetter!” More laughter. Clay Ledbetter grinned, tried to concentrate on his load of dishes. But the hostess, Della Belton, saw a tear rolling down his cheek. Passing him, she patted his arm. “Don’t let ’em get you down, Clay!”

More than once, he had slipped into her office, away from everyone else, and sobbed out his frustrations to her. “M-m-miss Belton, why d-don’t they like me? Clay’s a good boy; he don’t hurt nobody!”

Della, a motherly 50-year-old with a son about the same age as Clay — that is to say, 20 — would stroke his hair as he bawled into her lap.  “Clay, honey, sometimes people say things that hurt someone, and they don’t even realize they’re hurting them. Those busboys and servers pick on you because they think it’s funny — because they see you as, well, different.”

Clay raised his gaze to meet hers, and she saw something flash, in a split second, through his eyes. He knew, somehow, that he was … different from the others. He couldn’t have explained it, but he had a dim realization of it.

Della had gone to her boss, John Stanford, twice on Clay’s behalf. “John, can’t you get those others to lay off him? It makes him feel bad; it really does. You shouldn’t tolerate it from your employees!”

John Stanford wasn’t much on political correctness. Della had heard him use words like “reetard” and “dummy” to refer to Clay, although he liked the boy well enough. “Aw, Della, they’re just funning him. You know how guys are; they like to give each other a hard time. Shows they like you, if they tease you.”

So Della fumed in impotence, and the teasing continued. Clay would tell his widowed mother, Thelma, at home, about it, in his imperfect way, but she felt helpless to do anything about it. They needed the meager wage he received as a busboy and dishwasher at Stanford’s to supplement her equally small earnings as an at-home seamstress.

Thelma would have loved to be at Stanford’s the evening Romano and his party were there, because he was her favorite singer and actor. She had records of his from back in the 1950s, old 78’s, scratchy but still playable, and a few VHS tapes of some of his movies. Hers and Clay’s lives had been lived pretty close, though, ever since his father’s premature death and the loss of his income.

Dinner was brought to the Romano party in due course; dessert; after-dinner drinks. Joey ate, chatted, laughed, sipped the wine, smoked. But all the time, surreptitiously, he was keeping on eye on the stocky young busboy who moved clumsily, who the other employees often winked and grinned to each other about.  Romano’s eyes gleamed with recognition, and he nodded at one point, very slightly, to himself; his hunch was correct.

As the celebrity party appeared ready to start putting on their coats, heading leisurely for the door, the restaurant staff watched them with excited expectation, while trying not to look like they were. Joey Romano had a reputation: When he dined out, he always went around before leaving, thanking each service employee personally and handing each a $100 bill. Habits like that become well known in the service industry, and he was highly popular with restaurant and nightclub workers for that matter (not to mention that he had many fans for his music and acting).

As his party was stirring in their seats, Romano leaned over to Nick Spolini, stuck out a hand. Spolini smoothly slipped a wallet from his pocket into Romano’s palm; the tip purse. Romano never carried money; that’s one of the things he had underlings for.

Then Joey Romano whispered something in Spolini’s ear. The manager turned, stared at his boss in surprise, and said, “You sure? That much?” “Yeah, Nick, that much. It ain’t your money; you’ve got one on you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, boss,” Spolini said, reaching into an inside pocket and handing something else to Romano. He looked at his boss again, searchingly, shrugged and turned away.

The wait staff had been instructed to line up and file past Joey Romano for their personal thanks and Christmas gifts. There was good-natured shoving and jostling, and Clay Ledbetter got shunted to the back of the line. He stood waiting patiently, looking eagerly up toward his mother’s idol, the great man, presiding at the head of the line.

Romano worked the crowd with practiced nonchalance, shaking hands with the guys, planting kisses on each female cheek, saying, “Thanks so much, son” or “hon,” “Merry Christmas,” and handing out the century bills, one to a customer.

The waiters and busboys compared their bills gleefully, high-fived and teased each other about what they were going to get for, and do to, their girlfriends. The waitresses giggled like schoolgirls; Joey Romano was in his 60s, but he still had that aura of glamour, of a super-masculine Italian stud, and that reached them.

Clay’s turn finally came. Joey Romano looked at him in an almost fatherly way, put his arm around his shoulders and turned him partly away from the rest, saying, “What’s your name, son?”

“C-Clay L-Ledbetter, Mr. Romano,” Clay stammered. “You live with your folks, Clay?” “My mom; m-my dad’s dead.”

Romano talked quietly in Clay’s ear. “What’s your mom really like, Clay? What would she like for Christmas?”

Clay squirmed in delight. “S-she, s-she, she loves your records, Mr. Romano; and your movies! Really loves ’em!”

Conversation had risen in the room as Joey’s party and the others waited impatiently for him to finish; finally Nick Spolini called out, “Uh, Mr. Romano, we’ve gotta be someplace in just a few minutes.”

Joey stopped talking, turned around to confront the crowd, arm still encircling Clay’s shoulders. “You guys wanna quiet down? I’m asking Mr. Ledbetter’s advice about a very important matter, and I can’t hear what he’s saying if youse keep yacking, now can I?”

The staff looked at each other, amusement and amazement mixed on their faces. Todd Brown laughed out loud, and Joey Romano heard him. He turned a cold, hard stare on the young busboy. “Whatta you laughing at, son? You think you’re smart, don’t you? Well, maybe you’re not so smart, when all’s said and done. Understand?”

Todd’s head nodded uncertainly. “Uh, yes, sure, Mr. Romano. Didn’t mean to offend you, sir.”

The crowd could see Romano and Clay talking, whispering almost, for a minute or two longer, but couldn’t hear what was said. Then Joey slipped the money into Clay’s hand, saying, “You have a real Merry Christmas, son. And tell your mom — Thelma you said? — tell Thelma ole Santa may have a surprise for her.”

Clay beamed ear to ear, stammering, “Y-yes, sir, M-Mr. Romano! And you have a Merry Christmas, too! You do that!”

As Romano’s party filed out to their assorted vehicles in the snow, Joey said quietly to Nick Spolini, “Find out the address of that boy I was talking to at the end. Clay Ledbetter. Big boy; little slow. Find that out soon as you can.”

“OK, boss,” said Spolini. They both got into the rear seat of Romano’s sedan, and as the driver eased the big car out of the parking lot and onto the street, Spolini looked over and said, trying to sound casual, “Uh, boss, what kind of advice were you asking of that kid?”

“None of your damn business,” said Joey Romano. But he looked out the window as he said it, to hide his grin of anticipation.

——

The staff at Stanford’s quickly cleared up, cleaned up the place, and put their coats on to head home. It had been a long, hard day — but a profitable one.

Della Belton dropped Clay off at his house, saying, “Well, your mother will be all excited that you got to meet her hero, Joey Romano!”

“Yeah, yeah, she will, she will,” cried Clay as he got out. “Seeya tomorrow, Mrs. Belton!”

The Christmas tree glowed merrily in the Ledbetters’  little apartment. Thelma always made it as cheery as she could for the Yuletide, although money was tight as usual. As someone said in “A Christmas Carol,” at Christmas, want is more keenly felt.

“Mom! Mom! Tony Romano came to the restaurant! He talked to me!” Clay said loudly, delight and excitement mixed on his face.

“Are you kiddin’ me?! He really came there? Oh, I WISH I could have seen him!” Thelma cried, clasping her hands, her prematurely-lined face glowing with the thought. “And here I sat sewing Christmas costumes!”

Romano was originally from Jersey City, not too many miles away, and he got back there occasionally to visit family members, but he seldom came to Stanleyville. This year, though, he had been invited to be the grand marshal of the annual town Christmas parade, and decided to have a meal there a few days ahead of time to scope out the town, which he hadn’t seen in years.

Clay held up the bill Romano had given him. “And, and, he gave us each a hundred dollars! See?” He held it out for his mother to admire. Thelma leaned forward, gazed at the bill, and let out a little scream of  shock.

“Son! That’s not a $100 bill! That’s a thousand dollars!”

——

Nick Spolini was nothing if not efficient. He had Thelma’s address and phone number for Joey Romano the next morning. That afternoon, Thelma Ledbetter’s phone rang. When she answered, a voice she had never expected to hear on her own phone said, “Mrs. Ledbetter? Joey Romano. Want to wish you and your son a real Merry Christmas. Say, wanted to ask if you folks would be interested in taking part in a little plan I’ve got here …”

Three days before the Yuletide, Stanleyville’s annual Christmas Parade started its route from in front of the courthouse and down the main drag. At Stanford’s, the staff hurried to get ready for the lunch crowd, so they could troop outside and watch the high school band, the various business floats, the little kids from the boys and girls’ club playing elves, and of course, that man himself, Santa Claus.

And this year, a special added attraction: Joey Romano, riding grandly in an open convertible, well-bundled against the cold, waving at the crowd. The Stanford’s crowd hoped that maybe he’d throw a little more money their way.

Todd Brown and his friend Jeff stood, shivering, watching their breath, and eyeing the street for the oncoming parade.

Todd looked around among the staff, and said, “Wonder where the reetard is today? Clay?”

“Oh, his mom called in for him this morning; said he was sick,” Jeff said, craning his neck. “Here comes the parade!”

Bandsmen marched past, playing “Deck the Halls.” Business floats had trotted out all their Christmas wares, reasoning, ” ‘Tis the Season (to spend all your money).” The cute little elves scampered down the street, scattering wrapped penny candies left and right for their counterparts in the crowd to dive on and seize.

Then came the Man of the Hour, Old St. Nick himself, perched on his float, looking fat — well, padded —  and jolly, his rosy cheeks suggesting some Christmas cheer imbibed before he set sail. He drew the biggest cheers from the crowd.

And then, finally —

“Hey, there’s Romano!” yelled Todd to the others. “There he is, in the convertible. Hey, Joey! Thanks for the money, man! Merry Christmas!”

Jeff said, “He’s not alone in the convertible. Who are those two people sitting on either side of him?”

Todd looked, said, “Well, hell, I don’t know; wait — WAIT A MINUTE! That’s Clay Ledbetter and his mom!”

And as God is my witness, that’s just who it was. Clay, wearing what looked like an expensive topcoat and a hat, a snazzy scarf around his neck, waving to the crowd, his grin a mile wide. Thelma, bare-headed to show off a new, expensive hairdo that had come from the beauty shop just the day before, exotic earrings, expensive finger rings (she refused to put on her gloves, wanting everyone to see them). All three waved and grinned happily to the crowd, turning to chat with each other occasionally.

“I’ll be damned! I’ll be dee-double damned!” said Todd, utterly thunderstruck.

——

Next day, when Clay came to work, his boss lectured him about calling in sick when he wasn’t — but then relented in view of the season and told him to get back to work.

And he proved to be a considerable celebrity.

“Hey, Clay, how the heck you manage that?”

“Hey, Clay, looks like you got an in with Mr. Big. I been trying to get into singing. Think you could put in a good word for me?”

“Hey, Clay, what was the advice you gave Romano that night here?”

All the questions were sincere, too; no put-ons or put-downs. But Clay just shook his head at all questions and said, “I promised not to talk.”

Christmas morning came to the Ledbetters’, with Thelma and Clay still admiring the new clothes they had bought with Joey Romano’s thousand dollars. They hadn’t been through with breakfast for very long before there came a knock on the door. “UPS!”

The guy lugged several large boxes in, put them down in the living room. “Compliments of Mr. Joey Romano,” he said brightly, a young, energetic-looking guy.

“But, but … you had to work on Christmas?” Thelma asked. “Double-time pay, ma’am; union rules,” he grinned at her. “Had Christmas with my family last night.”

He headed out the door with a breezy “Merry Christmas!” and began whistling “Twelve Days of Christmas” as he got into his brown truck and drove off.

Thelma and Clay stared at the packages. Then they clumsily started opening them. Inside, they found a complete collection of Joey Romano’s recordings, from the earliest to the most recent, plus DVDs of all his movies. Included were CD and DVD players to watch and listen to them on.

Thelma sat down, Plop! in the middle of the living room floor. “I just can’t believe the last ten days!” she said. Clay started to laugh. “Mr. Romano, he said, he said, tell your mom she might get a little surprise, a surprise from Ole Santa. Guess this is it!”

The phone rang. Thelma got up, went over, her hands shaking, answered it.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Ledbetter! Joey Romano here. Guess your presents came, huh?”

“Mr. Romano — oh, Mr. Romano, you shouldn’t have! I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more, but you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble and expense!”

“Don’t worry about it, ma’am. Glad I could do it. You want to know, Mrs. Ledbetter, why I took an interest in Clay and in you? I’ll tell ya. When I was a little kid, over in Jersey City, I had a big brother. Peter was his name. Peter was — well, the term I guess they use nowadays is ‘mentally challenged.’ In those days they said ‘mentally retarded.’ I saw guys make fun of him, trip him on stairs, call him names. All that stuff. He took it all, and kept going, Pete did; but it broke his heart; and my mom’s, too. So many times I’d have loved to beat the crap out of those guys that gave him a hard time. But I was just a little kid. I couldn’t do nothing. I saw Pete cry at home; I saw my mom cry; I saw my dad so mad he could have chewed nails. But in those days, nobody cared. Pete was just a ‘reetard,’ as people like that called him.

“I told Mom one time, ‘When I grow up, I’m gonna be famous; and someday I’m gonna run across another kid like Pete, that never hurt anybody, but who everybody gives a hard time. And I’m gonna do something to help him. I’m gonna do a lot of somethings. Clay was that kid. When I first saw him, I knew he was like my big brother, and I said, ‘There’s the one I’m gonna help. I’m gonna help him for Pete.’ ”

Thelma was crying by this time. “Oh, Mr. Romano, you’re such a saint — ”

“Now don’t turn on the waterworks on me, lady, or you’ll have me crying, too. I’m Italian and emotional, you know. Now, can I talk to Clay for a minute?”

Thelma handed the phone to her son, who grinned broadly and said, “Th-thanks a lot, Mr. Romano! We’ve never, we’ve never, had a Christmas like this one!”

And Clay could almost sense a wink from Joey Romano coming over the phone line. “We fooled ’em, didn’t we, kid?”