Chapter 11: Thanksgiving
November 24th—Thanksgiving 1994 had finally arrived. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade was quintessential New York: giant cartoon balloons floated above Manhattan while marching bands, elaborate floats, and costumed performers made their way down Sixth Avenue. The parade route was packed with spectators bundled in thick coats.
That morning, Bruce joined the crowds alongside Joey, curiosity getting the better of him.
In the cold air, Bruce pointed at a massive balloon bobbing on its tethers. "What if one of those breaks loose?"
Joey scoffed. "No way—each balloon has like fifty handlers."
Bruce shrugged. "You never know."
After walking for a while, Joey pulled Bruce out of the crowd.
"I haven't seen enough yet! Can't we at least stay for Santa's finale?"
Joey shouted over the noise, "That's hours away! If we keep going, we'll be stuck up front forever. I'm starving—let me show you something."
"Show me what?"
Joey grinned. "You'll see when we get there."
They reached a street on the Lower East Side—still busy, but without the parade crush. Joey pointed at a nearby deli. "Right there!"
Bruce noticed several shops handing out free sandwiches and food. "Nobody's going hungry today."
"Their sandwiches are amazing. Every Thanksgiving I watch the parade, grab a couple, and eat them on the way home."
When their turn came, Joey took two; Bruce took one. Bruce unwrapped his, took a bite, and exclaimed, "Wow, Joey—you really do know all the best food!"
Joey's mouth curved into a smug smile. "Told you!" He tore into his own sandwich.
"And free food always tastes better!"
Joey nodded vigorously, mouth full. "Absolutely. Love free food."
Back at the building, they headed straight to Monica's. She was prepping the evening feast while Phoebe and Rachel helped.
Cider, roast turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce—everything was under control.
Chandler and Ross sat at the table. Ross was basting the turkey while Chandler guarded a paper bag.
"What's that?" Bruce asked.
"My Thanksgiving dinner—tomato soup, grilled cheese, and Funyuns."
"Ah, got it."
Chandler raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to ask why I'm not eating Monica's feast?"
"Nope."
"Oh? Did your mystical powers already tell you?"
Bruce smiled. "No, Chandler. I just figured it's connected to your past."
Inside he thought, Please don't make me hear this story again.
Chandler began, "I was nine years old..."
Everyone except Rachel groaned. Mention Thanksgiving dinner and Chandler's tragic backstory switch automatically flipped.
Joey sighed. "If he doesn't tell it, Thanksgiving isn't complete."
Chandler continued. "So there I am, mouth full of pumpkin pie, when my parents announce they're getting divorced—on Thanksgiving."
"And it gets better: Dad's running off with the pool boy. And you know where the pool boy was standing when they made this announcement?"
Rachel, hooked, asked, "Where?"
"Right next to me, asking if I wanted more turkey."
Rachel cringed. "Oh my God."
Monica cut in. "Story time's over. Bruce, didn't you say you'd make something special for Thanksgiving?"
"I did. Bought the ingredients yesterday—they're upstairs in my fridge. But every burner here looks occupied."
"You'll have to wait a bit."
"I'll cook upstairs and bring it down when it's ready."
Monica nodded. "Perfect. We're looking forward to it."
Upstairs, Bruce pulled out pork belly and various spices. He was making braised pork—his specialty from his previous life and an easy choice for tonight.
After half an hour of prep, the pork was simmering gently. Bruce decided to check downstairs.
But the apartment door was locked and no one answered.
He remembered they'd exchanged keys. He grabbed Monica's spare, opened the door, and was immediately hit by the fragrant aroma of turkey from the oven.
Bruce thought: Right, I remember—they left the turkey unattended and almost ruined Thanksgiving dinner.
He opened the oven, carved off a small piece to taste, and—confirming it was done—pulled on oven mitts, lifted the bird onto a platter, and set it on the dining table.
After double-checking that everything was off, Bruce left, locked the door, and headed upstairs to check on his pork.
He switched on the TV while keeping an eye on the time. The screen showed a giant balloon from the parade, its tether snapped, drifting above the city skyline.
Ten minutes later, Bruce killed the heat, tested a piece of pork—perfect texture—then cranked the heat back up to reduce the sauce.
When the sauce had thickened to a glossy finish, Bruce plated the braised pork, set the plates on a tray with a pair of new chopsticks, and headed downstairs.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard shouting from Monica's doorway.
"I said 'take the keys'—how much clearer could it be?" That was Monica.
"And I heard you say 'I've got the keys.' If you already had them, why would I need to grab them?" That was Rachel.
Bruce stepped off the stairs and cut through the argument. "Monica, could you hold this for me?"
Monica took the tray automatically. Joey leaned in. "Whoa, that smells incredible!"
"It's braised pork."
Bruce pulled out Monica's keys, unlocked the door, and ushered everyone inside.
Rachel groaned. "I forgot you had our spare key. What were we even fighting about?"
Monica hurried to the stove and broke into a grin—the turkey was out of the oven, golden and perfect.
She turned to Rachel. "Chandler has a key too, but if the bird had stayed in there five more minutes, it would've been charcoal."
She looked at Bruce. "Did you take it out?"
"Yeah. I came down, nobody was here, so I let myself in and rescued it. You guys were on the roof watching the balloon, right?"
Joey nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! How'd you know? It floated right over us—you should've seen it!"
"Caught it on the news while I was cooking. Giant inflatable breaks loose—doesn't happen every day."
Joey snapped his fingers. "Wait, this morning you said a balloon might get loose!"
"It's windy today. Not exactly a difficult prediction."
Chandler narrowed his eyes. "You do seem to predict a lot of things."
Monica cut in. "Stop interrogating Bruce. He's an old friend, not some fortune teller. Without him, none of you would have turkey. Let's eat!"
"Where's Ross?" Bruce asked.
"At Carol's, 'talking to the baby.'"
Joey frowned. "How do you talk to a baby that hasn't been born yet?"
"Ask Ross when he gets here. Someone call and tell him dinner's ready."
Fifteen minutes later, everyone—including Ross—gathered around the table while Bruce demonstrated how to use chopsticks with the braised pork.
Three minutes later, patience ran out. Forks replaced chopsticks and the pork vanished in seconds.
"So what do you think?" Bruce asked.
Joey swallowed. "First, it's incredible. Second, I don't even have words. It's like if barbecue brisket and maple syrup had a baby. That baby is this pork."
Ross looked around. "See? Joey's a genius when it comes to food and women—perfect description."
Monica nodded. "I've had similar dishes before, but yours is on another level. Completely different."
Bruce figured she'd tasted some watered-down version. "If you want, I can teach you."
An hour later, stuffed and content, everyone lounged in the living room.
Phoebe, standing by the window, called out, "Look—Ugly Naked Guy's having Thanksgiving dinner with someone!"
They rushed over. Joey whooped. "And she's naked too!"
"Nice that he has company," Phoebe said softly.
Bruce smiled. "Thanks, guys. If I hadn't met you, I'd probably be eating alone upstairs tonight. I feel really lucky."
The group exchanged glances and broke into quiet smiles.
Monica added, "And without you, we'd have no turkey at all. Happy Thanksgiving!"