Christmas in New York

I’d had a late lunch with an old friend the other day near 20th and Park Avenue South. My pal went back to his office while I finished the last drops of my Malbec at the bar of the Middle Eastern restaurant where we’d eaten. It was nearly 4:00. There was a Christmas party starting at 5:30 I that wanted to visit, but it was at 56th and Broadway – either a $25 cab ride that would be a long frustrating crawl through the densest of New York traffic, or a three-train subway ride with transfers at both Grand Central and Times Square. For me, a Hobson’s choice.

Or I could just jump on the #6 to Grand Central and easily catch the 4:23 home. My pleasant wine buzz would just be wearing off as we pulled into Yonkers. I could soon pour another and put the telly on ESPN in time for PTI; quite a pleasant evening for a retiree.

But I hate to miss a party. I had plenty of time so I began the underground trek to the west side. The first stop was Grand Central, which was at peak rush hour frenzy, and coming up to the main level from the Lex line was pure chaos – but with a sound track. Tucked between the up and downtown stairways was a 10-piece band -- five horns, two guitars, bass, drum and a singer – playing the old “Chicago” tune, “25 or 6 to 4”. There were commuters and tourists three and four deep with video cameras in every other hand. The singer seemed to be the leader of this half Asian/half African American ensemble, and he was holding his mic with one hand while selling CDs with the other – and briskly I might add. They were good.

I moved on to the Times Square shuttle, a longish walk to a special platform, passing on the way a stocky, 20-something, white man angrily shouting his devotion to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

And then what to my wondrous eyes did appear? Delta Dave Williams, a 40-something black man in a wheelchair playing acoustic (but amped) guitar and harmonica, with which he was pumping out real Delta blues, enhanced by the natural echo chamber of the grand arched and tiled ceilings under Grand Central. The shuttles come and go frequently which keeps the crowds moving just as quickly, but was not conducive to building the kind of audience the big band had. But that meant a good vantage point for me and I was happy standing there. For a moment I was back in Clarksdale.

“Excuse me sir.” Those words usually make me turn and walk the other way, but I looked up and saw a pair of shy, 15-year-old eyes meet mine. “Would you be willing to be interviewed for our student movie about the music in the subways?”

I couldn’t say no. She walked me over to a quieter spot to meet her crew. Two 15-year-old boys, one big and pudgy the other so small he looked more like 12. They were the classic, Hispanic version of AV clubbers. The larger one operated a tiny video camera while his smaller friend held the microphone. The young Miss, probably the only girl these boys talk to most days, will be a beauty when she loses her braces and reaches her 20’s. She served as the subway Katie Couric.

“Do you like this music?”

“It’s my favorite kind of music.”

“Does it make you feel happy?”

“It makes me feel contemplative.”

“Thanks for stopping. We might get in the Tribeca Festival so watch for us.”

I left some tribute for Delta Dave before getting on my train. The ride to Times Square featured a guy soliciting donations for his business – something he called “a Homeless Welcome Wagon,” a wheeled basket in which he carried a variety of goods he claimed to offer free of charge to other homeless people in the city: blankets, socks, bottles of water and such. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look, but his rap was pretty good.

On the #1 platform at Times Square I stood next to a tall young black man who was well-dressed and completely normal looking, and acting, except for the half-inch thick, pure white makeup that vertically covered one half of his face. We didn’t chat.

I surfaced at Columbus Circle, weaving my way through the Christmas market at the entrance to Central Park and down Broadway. Lounging under some scaffolding I passed an old man who looked like Santa, if Santa had been wearing the same clothes and sleeping in the streets for a year or so. There were no signs of fur trim left on his suit, and his hair and beard were mud gray rather than white. He had a collection plate at his feet and a hand-lettered sign around his neck: “I’m fine. Pray for Tiger Woods.”

As I passed him heading downtown, his twin brother was coming uptown wearing large felt reindeer antlers, pushing a shopping cart filled with random Evergreen trimmings.

It’s Christmas in New York.