 It
was 1968, Michael had invited me to spend Christmas Eve in a welfare
hotel on Bleeker Street next to the Village Gate, where most of
Michael’s case load lived. I had turned down other invitations
from friends because I didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve
listening to people tell me how surprised or sorry they were that
my wife Meredith and I had separated. We had been together seven
years and pretty much shared the same friends. If they were inviting
me they were inviting her. They wouldn’t take sides, and knowing
our friends, they would probably be hoping for a Christmas Eve reconciliation.
It was dusk, and heavy grey clouds hung over Manhattan. I switched
on the lights on my small Christmas tree. I had shoved a table in
front of the large window of my studio that looked down on Lafayette
just around the corner from Bleeker.
Two presents wrapped in gold paper with red bows lay under the tree.
I had bought the presents two weeks before, the same day I bought
the tree and decorations. The larger present was a book of Edward
Hopper’s paintings. The second was a thin volume of drawings
by Reginald Marsh. I had purchased both books at the Strand, a second-hand
book store on lower Broadway.
I would un-wrap them in the morning. Hopper’s glum, spiritless,
figures and dreary urban American landscapes would be perfect guests
for my melancholy Christmas. After coffee with Ed, I would settle
into the studio’s old couch, now my bed, with Reginald’s
bowery scenes, carnivals, and marsh women. These characters would
be my companions on Christmas morning.
 The
weather report called for cold and snow. I pulled a heavy sweater
over a flannel shirt. On top of that, a long wool coat, scarf, and
wool hat.
A party was planed for the residents of the hotel at eight o’clock
on Christmas Eve. Michael had told me to be there at seven thirty.
It was six o’clock and I wanted to grab a bite to eat before
the party. There was a restaurant with counter space almost across
from the hotel. The restaurant was warm. I sat at the counter and
ordered the turkey dinner special with extra cranberry sauce. I
ate two pieces of pumpkin pie for desert.
As I walked across the street to the hotel I wondered if people
would sing Christmas Carols. Then, not knowing exactly why, I felt
stupid for wondering. Today the welfare hotel is “The Atrium”,
an upscale apartment building complex. It is strange to think it
was once what it was, a last stop for alcoholics, drug addicts,
and what people once called the “down and out.” It was
just a euphemism back then for poor people. Think about it, being
both down and out. Next door, well dressed bourgeoisie are paying
cover to drink expensive drinks, while listening to music created
by, for and about–for the most part–down and out people.
I can’t remember what the lobby was like; I can only remember
the rooms and showers. But “unmemorable”, for the lobby,
will do. Three large men loitered in the doorway. Each one had a
couple feet of heavy thick chain draped around their neck and down
their chest.
They gave me a quick look and went back to their conversation. Michael
and two other social workers were laying out cookies and bologna
and Wonder Bread sandwiches on three folding tables. There was another
table with an artificial Christmas tree with some lights on it.
At the foot of the tree was a pile of small wrapped presents, all
the same size. There were already hotel residents meandering around
and talking to each other. No Christmas Carols.
Michael spotted me and came over to where I was standing and shook
my hand.
“You showed,” he said.
“I said I would,” I rebuked.
“Harold,” said Michael, gesturing to one of the chain
guys, “take my friend on a tour.”
We walked up the winding stairway of what must have once been, if
not a grand hotel, a good hotel. There was no evidence on the upper
floors to support this theory. All of the interior walls had been
gutted. In place of the hotel rooms there had been built plywood
and chicken wire pens. The plywood went to a little more than six
feet high and then was replaced by chicken wire to the ceiling.
If I stood on my toes I could look into the rooms. Except for some
larger family rooms, they were large enough to hold a single bed
and a metal locker. Some had a chest at the foot of the bed. The
rooms were maybe five feet wide and six or seven feet long. These
rooms probably housed between 300 and 500 residents. The rooms had
no toilets, sinks or showers. There was a public restroom on each
floor with sixteen shower heads and sixteen toilets. Harold said
there were not many women in the hotel, but there were special hours
for them to use the facilities.
On the way back to the lobby I asked Harold what the story was with
the chains. During the tour Harold had seemed like a nice enough
guy, for someone wearing a heavy chain as part of his working day
outfit.
“This place is just like the rest of the world,” Harold
explained. “Given a chance, the strong will prey on the weak.
We found out the chains scare these scum bags. One whack on the
wall or floor and they back off. No need to rough them up.”
I wondered aloud what anyone could possibly steal from these people.
“Their welfare checks,” he answered in a tone that suggested
I was retarded not to know this.
The party had started. I did not know it was possible to pile bologna
sandwiches and cookies a foot high on a plate. Nat King Cole’s
“Silent Night” emanated from a small transistor radio.
The revelers were mostly old men, with only a small scattering of
women. The men were thin and drawn. Many had southern accents. Almost
all were white.
Amongst all of these people were two children. One seemed perhaps
a small fourteen or fifteen year old girl. The second was her child,
perhaps two years old. Someone had thought to give the little girl
a special present. They were both sitting on the floor. The mother
helped the child open the gift that was almost as big as she. The
little girl pulled out of the box a beautiful doll dressed in a
pretty baby blue dress and cap. The baby hugged the doll while the
mother sat watching expressionless. Then she reached out and pulled
the doll from her child’s arms and hugged it tightly, tears
streaming down her face. The gift giver had failed to take into
consideration that the mother of the child was herself a child.
Everyone had finished their cookies and sandwiches and it was announced
that the gifts would be given out. A line was formed automatically,
as if they were accustomed to forming lines. One of each of the
small rectangular presents was handed to each person. The gift was
a pack of cigarettes. They were different brands. They began to
trade with one another for they’re favorite brand. One man
did not un-wrap his pack.
“What brand you got?” one man asked another.
“I don’t know,” responded the other. “I
open my presents in the morning.”
I got back to my studio about midnight. My melancholy was gone,
replaced by embarrassment and guilt.
I woke early. There was a blizzard. The usual grimy Bowery streets
were covered in a blanket of virgin white. I have always loved snow,
and decided it might cleanse my demons, whatever the hell that meant.
I bundled up and pulled on my old rubber fishing boots. I trotted
down the stairs and out into a white universe. There were no cars,
and this being New York, no plows yet. I decided to walk north.
It was eerily silent, the only noise was the crunch of the snow
beneath my feet. I walked up Lafayette then crossed over to Broadway
and eventually found myself in Times Square. All of the lights were
on, the movies, the theaters, Nathan’s hot dogs, the bars,
the bill boards, the restaurants, all blazing through the white
haze of the snow, and not a soul in sight. Almost.
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, FA LA LA LA LA LA LA
LA LA…” I peered in the direction of the voice, and
through the thick white texture of the falling snow I could see
the pale grey form of a man, hands outstretched as he sang his carol
into the silence of Time Square. I stood staring in his direction
until he finished his song. A few seconds of silence, then “You
owe me a Christmas breakfast for that solo performance.”
He was right, I did.
“I know a place that’s open,” he said.
I trudged through the snow in his direction, then shuffled along
in the caroler’s tracks. He had given me a song and now I
would give him breakfast. Good gifts.
|
 |
|
