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Christmas miracle at Grand Central Station
I have seen Capra's It's a Wonderful Life, and marked its imitation in programs from the Flintstones and The Odd Couple, to A Man Called Zorro on the Family Channel. I have contributed to "Toys for Tots" and the "Giving Tree" at the YMCA, but the only time I was actually involved in a Christmas miracle was more than two decades ago, in Grand Central Station. I was in law school at the time and I was going to see my girlfriend. It was curious that I should be part of a bit of magic at a time when I was learning how to be a professional cynic, but I suppose that was part of the miracle, too. I had just come from an office party at the New York City public agency where I was serving an internship. My girlfriend was going to drive out to a family gathering on Long Island and I would go home to Babylon from there. I got off the subway at 42nd and Lexington, and went upstairs to Grand Central Station. From there, I would catch the train to New Rochelle, iwhere my girlfriend, later my wife, had her apartment. I had stayed too long at the party however, and I got to the train too late. As I rushed to the train, its doors closed and it pulled slowly out of its berth and into the dark tunnel. It was another half hour until the next train, so I thought I would check out the decorations in the station. There were wreaths up, and the constellations on the ceiling still showed through the grime then, at least a decade and a half before the station was renovated to become a trendy meeting spot again. But the homeless were everywhere and you tried to keep moving and keep from making eye contact, so they wouldn't ask you for spare change. I moved from the magazine racks to the food stalls, avoiding contact with the less fortunate. A gust of wind off Lexington Avenue pushed its way through the doors on the east side of the station. Even those who had already made their way inside, had their umbrellas folded inside out, and the wind had left the food court wrapped in stale and foul air. But, the pungent smells of the garlic and oregano of the pizza stand fought their way through, and I was thinking of having a slice. The party I had just come from had just enough 'noshes' to soak up the beer and wine, but not enough to be a meal, I rationalized.... Then I saw the old woman, wrapped in the coats, sweaters and shawls someone else had given away. She looked like anyone's grandmother, but dirtier and more worn than anyone should let their grandmothers get. She looked like the "Dirty Gerty" character from the cartoons in the Daily News sports section, and babbled something about needing money. I shrugged and said I couldn't help her. She stared at me blankly, then moved her mouth a little. Her jowls shook, as if she had literally just chewed over what I had said. Then she turned away. I don't recall exactly what time it was, but bells went off to mark the hour in Grand Central Station. The muzak playing from one of the food courts' stereo systems seemed to take up the theme as well, and the pre-fabricated seasonal theme shifted to one of those songs about Christmas Bells. I honestly don't remember if it was the song about Snoopy and the Red Baron sharing a holiday toast, or a synthesizer instrumental version of Silver Bells, but suddenly I thought of the clock chimes as Christmas Bells, and I felt guilty about not giving the old woman any money. I know people who work with the homeless say don't give them money, give them a sandwich or a blanket so they can't spend the money on drugs or drink. But, at that moment, I wanted to go after the old lady and give her at least the money I was going to spend on pizza. Having a snack in the face of someone who was homeless just didn't seem right. I found her and was reaching out to give her a dollar and a half- the half a Kennedy half dollar. I remembered when my father would give me Kennedy half dollars as payment for little chores, way back when we lived in Woodside. I hoped it was going to bring the old woman luck. Perhaps break her addiction or be the last few cents she needed to get to a shelter that night. Maybe even to buy her own slice of pizza. I didn't care, I just felt compelled to give her the money before she wandered back into the dark tunnels. But that wasn't the miracle. The miracle came from a magician. The man was definitely stuck in the seventies. He looked like one of the Bee Gees, the one with the hair and beard, and the white suit like the one Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever. He had a little scarf and a black silk shirt and kept saying "Is that a Kennedy half dollar? Can I have it? I need it for my act!" He offered to give the old woman change equal to what I had given her. She just kept staring at both of us, not saying a word. Again, her jowls shook, chewing over of the situation with her silence and her hand out. The magician went through his pockets for change but had none. The only money he had was a ten dollar bill. Without hesitation, he took my four quarters and the Kennedy piece from the woman's grimy hands and gave her the $10 bill. Then he turned and smiled at me and then the old lady. "I am a magician, and I am going to perform at a club in Westchester, tonight," he said. He then said something about needing Kennedy half dollars for his disappearing coin trick and how he hadn't been able to get any all day. "You saved the act!! Thank you and Merry Christmas!" He took his stage stance and then made all the coins in his hand disappear. "PRESTO!" he yelled, then laughed and ran out of the food court. The old lady and I both stared after him. After a while we turned to face each other. I won't pretend I am better than I am. I didn't hug her. And she just stared at me and chewed again. I picked that awkward moment to check the time and decided to get back to the gate to catch my train to New Rochelle. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and started to go out the same way, but I hesitated and thought a moment. Christmas Bells had just made $1.50 into ten dollars. Maybe it wasn't a snowman coming to life, or an angel altering the time-space continuum to prove a point to a potential suicide. It certainly wasn't a savior born in a manger while three kings traveled from the Orient, but it was a miracle. I had been walking through the homeless and ignoring panhandlers in the City, while going to Manhattan College and New York Law School for years and never let it get to me. And then, the pizza, the bells, the coins and the Magician? That was a miracle. I can't say it changed me, though. I wasn't Saul on the Road to Damascus and I still wasn't going to hug a bag lady, but I decided to at least say something. I smiled and bid her a Merry Christmas. Then, she looked up at me and smiled, after another thoughtful chew. The withdrawn look left her eyes and she said Merry Christmas to me, in an accent I thought I recognized as Russian. The engaged and happy look in her old eyes didn't last, though. As quickly as it had come upon her, it left. There had been no angel's voices when she seemed to wake up and smile. The Slavic god of darkness and despair, Chernabog, quickly tossed his cloak around the old lady again. She chewed her empty words one more time and shuffled off to the tunnels. I caught the train, I finished law school and passed the bar exam. I mar- ried my girlfriend and practice law. I celebrate Christmas, and every year I try to help make a difference in some way. One year I took the leftovers from an office party and hauled them over to the Bowery Street Mission. The people who run the place said they couldn't accept open food for the shelter, though, so I just gave it to the guys huddled in the alley. The next year I wrapped up the party leftovers in plastic trays. I gave one to a homeless man who haunted Church and Worth Streets, near the entrance to the A train. He looked at it and threw the Chicken Francaise, rice and corn muffin at a commuter bus. Another year, I bought a pair of sneakers at a schlock shop on Chambers Street, for a shoeless man I saw next to the courthouse, but by the time I got back, construction workers had chased him away. These days, I give to the YMCA Giving Tree, or I paint murals for the PTA Breakfast with Santa party. I've never seen the magician since that night in Grand Central Station and wouldn't recognize him anyway. But, to the extent I am able, I still try to make some kind of magic at Christmas, even if it's only giving up pizza money, in the hope that one, simple act can be turned into more. Presto! The writer continues to work his small Christmas miracles from his home in Babylon. | |||||
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