By Stephen Witt
Some years before becoming a journalist, I was a musician in New York City, and for several years, I played in the subways to support my young family. It is here where my story begins.
It had been a lucrative Friday, as all Fridays during the Christmas season are. However, my mood didn’t reflect my bulging pockets as I ambled out of the Union Square subway station at 14th Street.
Instead, I felt lower than the spit on the subway platform. Here I had spent my entire adult life touring the country and the world as a street troubadour, with the idea of making my mark, and all I had to show for my dreams was a bunch of crumpled dollar bills and two pocketfuls of change. Jingle jangle for sure, but chump change. And I couldn’t lie to myself any longer about the fact that I was getting older in a young person’s world. Perhaps I didn’t have what it took to make a dent in this earth.
Walking down the street, I recalled a musician I once knew. He was a great sideman and a talented lead guitarist. This guy was married when I first met him and had a kid. He always told me he was going to make it in music one day, but in the meantime, he held a day job as a butcher to support his family. Eventually, the guy began to break down with booze and drugs and began to backslide down the apex of his life. I had always surmised that the stress of his not achieving his dream, combined with his obligation to support his family, caught up with him.
And now the tables were turned. I was the married one with my own family to support. Slowly, the word compromise seeped into my soul like the icy puddles through my worn winter boots. Even fellow songwriters began to change their tune, telling me how life sometimes throws curveballs and sacrifices for my family had to be made.
As darkness descended on the City, I found myself in front of an Irish bar on West 23rd Street, and I decided to stop in for a beer. Once on a bar stool, I wedged my guitar case upright between my stool and the underside of the bar and arranged a deal with the bartender to exchange my coins for dollar bills. It wasn’t until I emptied my pockets of change, spilling it on the bar, that I noticed a black man dressed like Santa Claus sitting on the barstool next to me and looking over my shoulder.
“How’s it going?” I asked, somewhat wary, stacking the quarters in fours. “My name’s Steve.”
“I’m old St. Nick,” the man replied. “But most people just call me Santa. Everyone’s got a story. What’s yours? Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Even though the man was a stranger, I proceeded to spill my life story. I let him know about my upbringing and my experiences busking around the world. My marriage. My kids. The whole nine yards. For his part, Santa lent his ear and listened intently, occasionally tugging at his long white beard or sipping his drink. Finally, as the bartender exchanged paper money for the coins, I finished my story, drained my pint of beer, and ordered another.
“Man, it sounds like the weight of the world is on your shoulders,” Santa said at last.
“Tell me about,” I replied glumly.
“It looks like you need your Christmas present a little early this year. But first, tell me, have you been good this year? Do you love your wife and kids? Do you love your music and playing it for people in the subway? Do you still hold onto your dreams, and most of all, do you love yourself?”
After giving it a moment’s thought, I nodded. “I suppose so.”
“Then quit your complaining and get on with your life. Your aspirations can only be realized if you develop a never-say-die attitude toward them. Having a family is an asset, not something that brings you down. You’ve got the world by its tail and don’t even know it. And I don’t have to hear you play to know you ain’t no slouch as a musician because look at all the jingle jangle you made today. You have a gift that you share with the world. That’s a blessing. We all live and die, and that’s it. Everything between is a miracle. Even sitting here at this bar and sharing a drink is a miracle.”
“What about my friends who tell me I should compromise and give up on my music?” I said.
“Friends, humph. Do they pay your rent? Do they make love to you at night? Man, them people ain’t your friends. They’re shadows you meet in the dark alleys of life. What’s the good book say? Don’t cast your pearls before swine.”
“You’re not really Santa, are you?” I said, suddenly feeling better about myself.
“Of course I am,” he said, finishing his drink in a swallow. “And as a matter of fact, I must be getting on my way. It’s my busy season, you know.”
“You work at one of the department stores, right?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” he laughed. “If you don’t believe, why not follow me outside?”
As we left the bar, a cold winter wind howled, rattling the window of the watering hole from which we were drinking. Santa turned up the white collar on his red satin cloak, and then put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and emitted a loud, shrill whistle. Within a few seconds, I heard a loud jingling sound in the night sky.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa laughed as he mounted the sleigh and pulled off into the night sky. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
Editor’s Note: LACP is looking for short fiction for its Friday Fiction series. We pay $35. Submit stories to SWitt@LosAngelesCountyPolitics.com
