MERRY CHRISTMAS, MR.

SHARK

He walked upon the new fallen snow with delight. Christmas carols serenaded him from
the stores along the avenue. His warm cashmere coat protected him from the frigid elements of
winter. The snowflakes danced around him like ballerinas from Heaven. He was at peace. The
dawn appeared with the saintly whiteness of the joyful holidays. He couldn't help keeping his
broad smile of glee from adorning his face. Christmas! What a wonderful time to be alive and
part of humanity. He was glowing. The bells from the Santas along the decorated stores added a
certain nostalgia of warm feelings to his steps. It took him to a time of his precious childhood,
where the smell of candy canes was as real as Santa eating and drinking the cookies and milk that
he left next to the Christmas tree.

He stepped down the stairs of the subway station and dropped the token in its slot. The
platform was already crowded with heavily scented, well-dressed passengers eager to get to their
offices, where Christmas parties and bonuses awaited them. A saxophone player blared festive
tunes, attracting the coins falling into his moneybox.

The train roared into the station then swallowed everyone who entered through its many
mouth-like doors. He leaned against the closed doors and unfolded his New York Times to keep
abreast of the rising of his stocks. He couldn't hide his happiness if he tried. His investments were
climbing to the top. From the end of the car he heard annoying cries from a beggar. A sad story,
which he had heard too many times before. Jesus, he thought, when are these losers planning to
get a damn job and stop harassing hard working people. Goddamn parasites, that's what they are.
Maggots eating from our flesh. He buried himself inside his newspaper and ignored the so-called
homeless man and his so-called pathetic sad song.

At Rector Street he exited the train and ascended to the busy pavement. The snow was
beginning to stick, and the whiteness gave the city a fresh magical look. He streaked past the
Salvation Army's bell ringers, as the recorded Christmas songs resonated through the old
skyscrapers. He was not a prudent man. On the contrary, he was well liked and respected. But
what made his blood boil, was the presence of so many beggars that seemed to have sprouted all
over New York. On almost every corner of the streets you were bound to run into another sob
story from these alcohol and drug induced wasted bodies. By all means, there were places that the
city supplied these freeloaders with food and shelter. If they were too lazy to seek an honest
workday, then definitely he was going to refuse to support those obnoxious leeches.
"Merry Christmas Tommy, he greeted the starter as he entered the crowded lobby of the
office building.

"Merry Christmas, Sir. How are you doing on this fine morning?" Tommy asked as he
acknowledged the other tenants mingling around the elevator banks.

"Well, it can't get any better than this. It's Christmas Eve. It's snowing and after work,
there's an amazing party to attend. Like I said, you can't top a day like today, he exclaimed with
the enthusiasm of the little kid in him.
"You are absolutely right about that, Sir. Now you have a great day, Tommy said as he
held the elevator's door.
"You too, Tommy. See you later, he responded as the door slid shut. He stepped off the
elevator on the sixteenth floor and walked to his office.
"Merry Christmas, the receptionist welcomed him sweetly as he came inside.

"Merry Christmas, Mary. My, don't you look great today, he complimented her on her
lovely red outfit and neatly coifed hairdo. Mary smiled, her cheeks slightly blushing. "I'm telling
you Mary, when you decide to dump your husband give me a call."

Mary laughed and her eyes twinkled. It felt good to have a young handsome man notice
her. At age fifty-five, that had become very rare, regardless if the compliments and flirts were
sincere, or just fancy pleasantries that bore no real foundation. She watched him walk by; his
masculine scent and his well-groomed attire made him the most sought after young executive in
the office. Plus, the money, which he came from, didn't hurt either.

He entered his office overlooking Broadway and Trinity Church. He stretched out on the
fine worn leather chair and clamped his hands behind his head. He swung the chair around to meet
the beauty that was being created outside his window. The old clock on Trinity Church read nine
thirty and he marveled at the cascading snow around the blackened antique cathedral. The falling
flakes had slowly buried the decaying tombstones around its grounds. The traffic flow below was
jammed, as horns began to try to outdo each other. The bustling of the city was something that he
loved so much. He stood up and peeked outside for a closer, more personal look. The snow was
increasing and the visibility from his window was just merely a couple of blocks. If it kept snowing
like this, he reasoned, the one o clock quitting time was going to be moved up much earlier. He
glanced at the clock once more, and to his surprise it was already ten o' clock. It seemed as though
the whole city had given up on any notion of working, by the absence of the telephone ringing.
He had anticipated that it was going to be a very slow day, but he had not received a single call.
Not that he was complaining. After a hectic stressful year, a day like today was welcomed with
joy and open arms.

He roamed around the office, saluting and chitchatting with the merry co-workers.
Everyone seemed to have transformed themselves into little excited Christmas kids, which we all
possess inside. Even Mr. Thornton, the senior partner. Every Christmas he wore a red and green
plaid vest with a bright red tie. It was the only time that you saw him smile. There was a rumor
that it was the only day that he drank a few martinis before nine o' clock.

He returned to his office, and through the window the snow was falling so rapidly, that
Trinity Church was now a gray blur. He called a few clients to wish them Happy Holidays, then
grabbed his coat and scarf and stepped out into the corridor. Laughter and the sound of kisses
spread through the work place. The exodus had begun as he joined them, and made their way
towards the elevators. Marlene, Mr. Thornton's secretary, came up to him and gave him a hug and
a kiss, very close to his lips. Her perfume was sexy, and her breath sensually hot.
"Big plans for the holidays? she asked him, holding on to his arms and standing with her
body pressing hard against his. He looked down and smiled, remembering the few escapades they
had shared together. Nothing serious. Just pure friendly safe adulterous lust.

"If the weather permits, I'm invited to spend time with friends and tomorrow I'm heading
to Oregon to see the folks," he answered while pushing her gently away from him as he put on his
coat.
"And if the weather does not cooperate? she kept on while helping him with his scarf.
"Then what?"

"I guess I'll stay home and play with my toys," he responded as he slipped on his leather
gloves. He glanced around him, and was relieved that Marlene's flirtations went ignored by the
others. It was obvious that everyone was pretty happy and behaving almost the same way.

Marlene laughed and began buttoning her coat as they boarded the crowded elevator. The
rambunctious moving car descended to the lobby, and the occupants joined others from the
building in the cavernous lobby, which echoed with laughter, greetings, and embracing farewells.
After wishing everyone a joyful holiday season, he pushed the revolving doors and accepted the
attack from the wind and the frenzy of falling snow. He had only walked half a block and was
already covered in white flakes. The cold howling wind slapped his face and pulled his hair back.
He looked at his Rolex and hurried his steps towards William Street, right off Wall Street. An
important client was holding an intimate party, and the least he could do was show his face and

play the political business game for a tiny bit. Besides, he wouldn't mind a bite to eat and a few
glasses of wine.

He took the private mahogany elevator to the forty-seventh floor, as he brushed the snow
from his coat and straightened his tie. The doors opened and a tuxedoed butler took his coat and
scarf, and then led him inside where the gathering was being held. He scanned the room and
noticed the dignitaries of Wall Street; the movers and the shakers, the gods of the financial empire.
They were all comrades of wealth and success. They enjoyed power, and the luxury of living a
cut above the rest.

He approached Mr. Kleinberg with an extended hand, and in turn, Mr. Kleinberg
introduced him around to the others. He drifted among the crowd, greeting and meeting people
that perhaps he would never see again. The booze sent a false sense of togetherness and goodwill
to everyone's mind. For one short day they were all members of the same fraternity, until the next
day of business. When their cutthroat tactics and backstabbing weapons would be exposed again.
But for now they all enjoyed the moment, for whatever it was worth.
"I'm surprised you made it, a voice exclaimed from his left. He turned, and Brian Lutsky
was standing there, scotch in one hand, the other hand outstretched and a big Cuban cigar stuck in
his mouth. With a face red and flushed, not because of the weather, but because of the liquor.
"Haven't seen you in these neck-of-the-woods, ol' buddy."

He took Brian's offered hand; it was moist and clammy. "How are you doing Brian? How's
the wife and kids? They must be big by now, he asked, faking interest.
"They are all big now, including the wife, and its not because she's pregnant. But at least
everyone is fine. I see that you're still single, you sly devil, Brian pointed at his friend's ringless
finger.
"Listen, my wife has a good looking friend that I know she could set you up with. Of
course, that's if you want.

No thanks, Brian. The last time your wife played Cupid with me, I was stuck with a
woman that had a moustache."

Brian shook his head with amusement. "Come on buddy, it was not a moustache, it was a
little fuzz. I thought that it was cute. Besides, what's a little hair, when it comes to true love?"

"Her moustache was fuller and better trimmed than mine," he answered, before he burst
out laughing. Brian joined him while drinking from his glass. "Not only that, she was the liberalminded person type that seemed to be living in a fairy tale."
"That bad of a date, I gather, Brian commented while chewing on the cigar.

"Bad was not the word. She was on some type of crusade, playing Sister Theresa with every
dirty wino that she came across. Do you believe that she stopped on almost every corner to talk,
and give money to every clown with a cup and a bullshit story? I'll tell you, it did cross my mind
to jump in a cab and leave Miss Bleeding Heart among her captive audience."
"And why didn't you? Brian asked as he took a fresh Scotch from the rolling bar and
puffed on his cigar.
"I was being a gentleman, he informed. "Also, you know what they say, at three in the
morning there's no such thing as an ugly woman. It was getting late and by all means, I did invest
a lot of money on her!"

Like two overgrown high school students, they howled at their jokes and toasted to the
coming New Yeara new decadethe year 2000 was a few days away. After they composed
themselves, Brian excused himself to join an older man across the room who had motioned him to
come over.

"Some of those homeless are proud people who have fallen on hard times, with nobody to
help them out."

He swung around at the direction the comment came from, and faced an attractive woman.
The long ago blind date, minus the facial hair. He glanced around quickly and noticed the smirk
on Brian's face. I'll kill you for this, he wanted to shout. But he turned his eyes back to the woman
and smiled embarrassingly.

"Kathy, what a surprise!" he tried to collect himself.

"I see that it is a surprise, especially since my name is not Kathy, but Victoria. Probably
both names sound the same to you, she said in a voice submerged in a self-satisfied sweetness.
"Oh Christ! I beg your pardon, he apologized. "I meant no disrespect. Really. Can I get
you something to drink?"

"No thank you. I'm not much of a drinker and as you have failed to notice, my glass is still
half full.

"Mine is half-empty. I was about to freshen it, but I guess I'll wait until you're ready."

"You don't have to go through any trouble on my account. If you care to refresh your drink
please, don't let me stand in your way."

He remained in front of her like a mischievous child with his hands full of cookies and the
cookie jar shattered at his feet. He cleared his throat and grinned stupidly. Victoria was enjoying
watching his phony coolness slipping away from him.
"You look great Victoria, he finally spoke, smiling and hoping to regain his calmness.
What brings you among all these starched stiff boring business morons? I had no idea that you
were in the financial game."

"Everything has to do with finance. You can't escape it, she replied, almost purring like
a kitten when realizing that the rat was cornered and ready for the kill. I'm here with a group that
represents the Coalition for the Homeless. A few Wall Street companies are investing in our
organization. Regardless if they believe in our cause or not, it's just a nice write-off on their taxes.
In this inner-city battle, you don't question where the funds are coming from, but rather, when they
are coming."

"But why do we have to feel responsible for some drug addicts or alcoholics that are too
lazy to work? What gives them the right to feel that the hard working person owes them part of
their paychecks? Why can't they just get a life and do something constructive instead of wasting
their whole life begging for quarters in the morning, and buying drugs and booze at night? What
makes them so special? Why should I care? Why should you care? Why should anybody care
for those goddamn losers and parasites of society? he lectured at Victoria, as he began to feel the
strength returning to his argument. When he got rolling, nobody was able to stand up to his
prowess. In arguments, no matter if they were in a board meeting, or inside a bar talking about
any subject, he was a great white shark. The rest were merely tiny guppies.
"Not every homeless person is a junkie or a drunk, she fought back, bracing herself for
another typical dispute that she had grown so tired of. "So many people with distorted information
swear that their opinions are the only ones that deserve the right to be heard. There are entire
families; we are talking little children that as we speak right now, are not going to receive not even
a piece of candy for Christmas. Forget about a toy, or a warm sweater or a hat. Throughout our
powerful nation, people are being left with no jobs because big corporations are handing out
Christmas bonuses in excess of millions, but find that they must pink-slip someone making a lousy
twenty grand in order to downsize and save money. And it's so sad that this usually transpires at
the end of the year, in order to help their fiscal propaganda. People like you and the whole bunch
inside this room, are the ones most responsible for the homeless than all the drugs and alcohol in
the entire world!"

He sneered at Victoria, and was slightly amused at the way she had exhausted herself. It
was quite funny for someone in her position to be so emotionally wrapped up in a problem that

obviously did not pertain to her. But in a strange absurd way, he was intrigued by her enthusiasm
and the fire that burned within her. It was as if this whole homeless foolishness, was a personal
vendetta with her. He looked in her eyes, and their piercing strength put a certain fear in him.

"Why do you hate homeless people so much?" Victoria asked.

"I never said that I hate them. I just despise the notion of healthy able bodies loitering all
over town with their lies, and expecting me to believe in them and to care."

"So in other words, you don't care about their plight. About their circumstances, that
perhaps were beyond their control. Different aspects that brought them into the gutters. Then
again, I don't expect you to understand. You have never experienced a hard time in your life. You
were sheltered throughout your whole life by nannies, butlers, and chauffeurs. Everything has
come too easy for you; it's impossible for you to even fathom the idea of others that were not
fortunate enough to be born like you."

"Now I should feel guilty about how and where I was born? Should I be penalized because
my life has been a comfortable one? I still work!" he exploded.

"Correction! You keep a chair and an office warm. You do not work. There is a difference.
The day that you roll up your sleeves, develop calluses on your hands, and worry about what bill
to pay with your next paycheck, then you could say that you put in an honest day's work.
Otherwise, you are just another body to keep the income legit in your family owned company.
You have never known the fear of losing a job, and never will."

"What the hell makes you have this holier than thou attitude? What gives you the right to
point fingers at others? Why the hell should I feel that I owe something to those bloodsuckers? If
you feel so strongly about them, why don't you convert your home into a soup kitchen and devote
your whole life to feeding them. Or are you the type to be the first one to scream if the city plans
to build a homeless shelter next to your home? Yet you go around trying to feed yourself lies

about how much you care, when in reality, you are just trying to keep your lying conscious mind
smelling like roses, when it really stinks like shit!"

Victoria's eyes widened as her lips curled with disgusted disbelief. Never had she met
anyone as self-centered and as prejudiced as the finely clothed rich boy standing in front of her.
The hate she had for him overflowed in her soul. She wanted to slap him and drag him with her
to the shelters, so he could have a front row ringside seat of the atrocious crisis of the homeless.
But all she could do at this moment was to remain there and tremble with anger. She started to
speak, but her mind was definitely against it. Victoria whirled around and walked away from him.
To mock her and to assure his empty victory, he childishly shouted at her a sarcastic Merry
Christmas.

Brian came to him now, with a crooked drunken smirk smeared across his beet-red face.
His words slurred as saliva drooled disgustingly by the side of his mouth. His eyes closed nearly
into straight slits. Well, ol' buddy, let me assure you that this was not planned. I was more
surprised than you," Brian sloshed, while his body swayed from side to side. "How about you
helping me get out of here. I can't even see straight, ol' buddy."

He looked down at Brian, and putting his arm around the intoxicated man, he whispered in
his ear. "Youre on your own Brian, give my regards to the family. And by the way, next time,
warn me. Asshole!"

He removed his arm from Brian and left that side of the room, gliding towards the large
windows facing Wall Street. They were very high and the view, as the snow gravitated, was
mystical. Like standing in the midst of Heaven's clouds and witnessing another world being
created. The canyons of Wall Street created a claustrophobic sensation that was eerie, but
enchanting in its own way. From the reflection in the obscured window he saw Harold, a junior
partner, approach him. The man's well-calculated steps on the marble floor had a bit of a jerky
motion, the beginning of a flustered stroll.

"If the snow keeps on, we will be camping here until next year, Harold stammered, forcing
his tongue to loosen up. "How are you doing babe? I couldn't help overhearing the little battle
back there. It was about time someone told that bitch to get off her soap box."

He twisted his head halfway from the window. He studied Harold with untrusting
reservations. He never felt comfortable with Harold. Then again, it was the same with everyone
in this party. Everyone spoke with double meanings, always searching for the edge to advance
over the next person. Nobody was real. Everyone was as unworthy and rickety as a rope bridge
in some deep remote jungle. Not that he was perfect, for the fact was that he also partook in some
of the same unscrupulous behavior.
"How's life been taking care of you, Harold? he feigned friendship. "Did you finally buy
that boat or are you still rowing rentals in Central Park?"

Harold threw his head back and laughed a loud fraudulent laugh. "You are always the
humorous one, aren't you? To feed your curiosity, yes I purchased a nice vessel that sleeps ten.
We must get together in the summer for some sailing, if we ever dig ourselves out from under all
this snow."
"It's coming down pretty hard, he informed Harold, while allowing his eyes to return to
the snowfall. "I'd better start leaving, there are a few things that I need to buy before the day is
over."
"Why so soon? Harold protested. "It's not even two o'clock yet. All the stores will be
open until at least ten tonight. Have a drink, relax, and be merry." Harold slapped him chummily
on the back, while stifling an alcohol-smelling burp. "Let me freshen my drink, Harold excused
himself and soon was lost in the loud false-hearted crowd.

After watching Harold get swallowed up by the drunken partygoers, he slowly removed
himself from the window, repossessed his coat and scarf, and slipped away from the banquet
without being noticed. In actuality, by next week, this whole charade would be an embarrassing

memory. It would go unmentioned and surely forgotten, by those who became fools under the
influence of excessive scotches and martinis.

He trudged through the snow-buried sidewalk, and began climbing the white dunes that led
him to Broadway. Slow-moving cars slid and stopped all twisted on the slippery road. The flakes
twirled and swirled wildly before clamping on solid matter.

His eyes squinted to protect

themselves from the icy frozen rain. His face was cold and wet.

Along Broadway, he saw groups of people turning and stopping like lost nomads in the
desert. Some looked around searching for taxis, others began to walk towards uptown in search
of a quick way to get home. He stood there looking around confused about his next move as he
glanced up at the Twin Towers half of their majestically bodies hidden by snow. He eavesdropped
on a conversation about the trains not running and in the middle of Broadway he stopped. There
was no longer any traffic, with the exception of a car or two spinning their tires, unable to find the
proper traction to keep them on the right path. He started walking in the direction of the Fulton
Street Station. He knew that there was more than just one line of trains in that subway. Surely, he
reasoned, there should be at least one of those lines still running. He began his trek among the
others, in their fine clothes and ruined new shoes.

The first thing he noticed when he climbed down the stairs of the Fulton Station was the
immense humanity that grew and grew like a dangerous fungus. Confusion and short fuses were
dictating the tempo inside the subterranean world. Agitated token clerks and conductors on the
platform answered the same questions over and over as distorted announcements crackled with
static, upsetting the maddening hordes with every guttural syllable. The train at the station, like a
useless dead giant, hissed and farted and refused to go on. Somewhere a little child cried and
whined about wanting to go home, a sentiment approved by everyone. Thank God for the
innocence and honesty of the child, for it brought calmness to the masses. But typical of New
Yorkers, it didn't last.

He queried a man next to him about the conditions, and between curses, the man was able
to tell him that every train was stalled somewhere underneath the city, or outside on the elevated

tracks on the outskirts of the other boroughs. It was a disastrous domino syndrome that obviously
had come to an end. He bunched with the other passengers planning his next move. The more he
thought about how he was going to get home to Forest Hills, the more blanks he kept coming up
with. He thought about walking to Queens, but that notion was as laughable as eating soup with a
fork; possible, but not practical. From downtown Manhattan to the Queensboro Bridge, he
estimated to be approximately ninety blocks. Across the bridge you could add another twenty, and
from Queens Plaza to Forest Hills, another hundred blocks. He made an educated mathematical
guess in his mind, coming up with the minimum of two hundred and ten blocks. Now two hundred
plus blocks, he felt was not a Herculean number, thanks to the five nights which he attended the
gym religiously. He was confident enough that he was in excellent shape to take such a walk. But
to be rational, he decided to wait another half-hour to forty minutes, just in case something
developed to his favor. He even reasoned that perhaps in Queens he might find the 'F' or the 'E'
train still running, for the simple fact that both lines ran underground. They might be running from
one end of Jamaica to Queens Plaza. It was a safe bet to take, and he would rather be closer to
home, than be a prisoner inside the New York City walls.

A slow frustrated hour went by and nothing had changed, with the exception that more
people had squeezed inside the already overcrowded station. Tempers were flaring even quicker
than before. There had been a count of ten tongue-lashing fights, and two attempted fist fights
which ended in just tiresome pushing and shoving, before reasonable minds were able to defuse
the human time bombs.

Some trains began to move slowly, dragging themselves to Brooklyn. Little by little, the
crowd began to disperse throughout the chambers of Fulton Street Station. He elected to wait a
bit longer. It was a great sign that trains were moving to Brooklyn. Hopefully, very soon they
would resume service for Queens. He was thankful that he was warm and away from the brutal
snowstorm that was choking the Big Apple.

Another hour had passed by with no indications or bright hopes of any movement going to
Queens. He was getting agitated and restless. His stomach was growling and he scolded himself
for not eating at the party. He waited awhile longer until finally, he couldn't take the madness of

the humanity anymore. He shoved himself through the impatient mob, and then threw himself at
the mercy of the bitterness that the black sky was bringing upon him. The stores and merchants
that lined Broadway were closed or on the verge of closing. The ones that remained open made
him wonder if the people inside were planning to wait out the storm, even if it meant staying out
overnight and away from their loved ones. The sprinkle of souls became less and less noticeable,
and when he finally reached Canal Street, the entire place was as eerie and as isolated as a ghost
town. His feet were numb and he cursed himself for not buying some snow boots from the Modell's
that he had passed around City Hall. Every so often, he climbed down the stairs throughout the
subway stations that ran along Broadway, hoping to discover that trains were back in service and
if not, to thaw out in the warmth of the underground enclaves.

He was doing good time. He had already marched by Twenty-Eight Street, and was slowly
approaching Thirty-Fourth Street. From the distance, he could make out the Christmas lights of
the Macy's store. The swirling snow entering his eyes almost blinded him, tempting him to walk
with his arms outstretched. He lost his footing and went sprawling onto the ground with his arms
flailing and attempting to stop the unavoidable fall. He landed clumsily on the fallen snow as his
knee found an object that ripped the fabric and tore the flesh. He felt the warm blood drip down
his leg. He jumped up and peeked under the shredded gray wool. An open ugly slash oozed blood
and sent a red pain straight to his brain. He looked on the ground and a broken wine bottle
protruded from under the snow. "Goddamn winos, he mumbled angrily. He slowly began
walking again, ignoring the chuckles from the few people who were scattered around and found
his fall amusing. He limped and entered the Thirty-fourth Street Station.

To his delight, he heard the rumble of massive steel cars riding the underneath tracks of
the subway. He searched for a token and went through the turnstile with an elated heart that
jumped with happiness. Well, he said to himself, let someone at the party try to top this story. He
found himself humming the classic 'Deck the Halls' as he descended down the ramp that delivered
him to the 'F' train, which would take him straight home.

The 'F' train platform was littered with exhausted short-tempered riders, each one of them
anticipating this crazy ordeal to finally subside. Both tracks on each side were occupied with

idling trains that appeared to be resting for the night. In solemn anger and helplessness, the
passengers entered and exited the cars. Bewildered straphangers roamed the platform like
survivors from a nuclear bomb.

He stood feeling defeated at the lack of action that surrounded him. He thought about
continuing his walking marathon, but he settled against it. For one, he was soaked and cold. He
was also beginning to sneeze and sniffle and he feared that he was coming down with a cold. More
exposure to that nasty weather, and he was entering into the boundaries of pneumonia for sure.
Plus to make things worse, his knee was hurting and his slight limp was now a bit more
pronounced. Before he could realize what had happened, more people that he cared to be around
encircled him. Loud, incoherent messages kept annoying the frustrated commuters, with the wornout excuses of red lights, disabled trains, or some fool pulling the goddamn emergency brake!

He felt tiny, standing in the middle of the platform with wall-to-wall irritated campers. To
make matters more aggravating, the disturbing begging of some charlatan shaking his cup and
singing his tired old song echoed throughout. He shook his head in disbelief. Sons of bitches,
that's what they were. He tried to erase the beggar from his mind and concentrated on a
conversation to his right. It was two Asians rapidly chit-chatting in their foreign tongue. To his
left a heavy-set man mumbled with curses and complaints. Behind him a tall black woman
breathed on his neck, while smacking her lips every other second. In front of him, a Hispanic man
poked at his ribs with an over-sized nylon bag strapped to his back.
Drowning the muttered grievances and the hissing silent curses, an announcers voice came
bellowing through the hidden static-filled speakers. "Attention please. Due to the weather, all 'F'
trains will be terminating at Lexington Avenue. Those traveling to Queens, please take the
Uptown 'R' train to Queens Plaza where you could transfer to the 'G' train or get off at Roosevelt
Station for the number '7'. There are no 'N' trains traveling to Queens at this time. We apologize
for any inconvenience, and we thank you for your cooperation. Thank you for riding the New
York City transportation, and we wish you a safe holiday."

He felt like yelling or hitting the next object or person that ran by him. Like cattle walking
to the slaughterhouse, he inched with the humanity towards the 'R' train. His knee throbbed and
became stiff with each step he took. It was a hell of a way to spend the coming Christmas Eve.

The overfilled platform of the 'R' train was a sight that made him take an agonizing glance
at what was developing before him. His shoulder sagged and he sighed loudly, not caring who the
hell heard him or not. He just wanted to go home!
He was being suffocated by the madness around him, and now he wished that he hadnt
left his comfortable home. Out of anger and just plain distorted common sense, he escaped the
subway and climbed out onto the open surface of the streets, only to be welcomed by the furious
blizzard that mocked him with its frigid embrace.

He scanned the empty streets, and the silence of the storm brought a sense of old long ago
days from a time when the city was not even born. He marched up Sixth Avenue, what the tourists
called 'Avenue of the Americas', and accepted the challenge that nature was offering him. The
fight was brutal, but he was willing to fight. He kept his slow hike through the evacuated streets.
Every store was closed. Cars and buses and trucks had been abandoned in the middle of the roads.
They resembled prehistoric beasts frozen forever, and as he ventured among the vast land he felt
like the last man on Earth.

He turned at Forty-Ninth Street and began stumbling towards the East Side. Through the
snow veil he could see the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, and the sight filled his
heart with sadness. Right now, how he wished to be in a cozy warm apartment with loved ones,
sipping eggnog or some fine wine. How he longed to hear Christmas carols, and the happy laughter
of friends gathered in festive surroundings. He contemplated the beautiful scene, and he felt like
he was part of a gorgeous Christmas card. He couldn't bear the pain that the majestic tree with its
bright lights and large shining star was giving him. He stripped his eyes from that perfect dream
and continued his struggle towards Lexington Avenue. He prayed softly for the trains to be finally
running again.

When the angry blizzard was too overpowering to handle, he dropped down inside the
Fifty-first Street subway station. The first thing that jumped out at him was the dark empty token
booth and the unprotected turnstile that anyone could enter without paying the fare. He chuckled
under his frozen breath at the absurdity of it all. No trains, therefore who gives a shit if you pay
your fare or notyou are not going anywhere. No trains, nothing!

The idea popped in his mind so quickly that it startled him. It was too good of an idea that
his heart quickened with joy and the sense of salvation. It was not a good idea, but a great
brainstorm of an idea. He felt very proud of himself. Yes indeed, very proud.

He figured that if he walked along the train tracks, he could easily walk to the Fifty-ninth
street station where he could reach the platform to catch the 'N' or the 'R' trains. All he had to do
was to stay on the course that both trains travel towards Queens. The whole strip is underground
and the tunnels would protect him from the elements that were becoming more brutal on the
outside. He felt a bit squeamish about the rats in the tracks, but as long as he stayed in the middle
of the tracks there was nothing to fear. Besides, wasn't he bigger than a goddamn rat?

He limped to the end of the vacated platform, and went down the small yellow painted
steps. His heartbeat was a few beats quicker than before as he took a deep breath, looked straight
into the blackness in front of him and began walking. He tried to make as much noise as possible,
figuring that if there were any rats around, the racket would keep them at bay. It didn't take much
before his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. It was like walking inside a movie house
before the picture started. He made a mental reminder to be extra careful with the live third rail.
As the saying goes, he finally saw 'the light at the end of the tunnel', and he laughed at the thought
of it. He scaled the steps and strolled along the Fifty-ninth Street platform as his heels echoed
through the silent night.

The stillness was enough to give you the willies. He followed the signs and at the end, he
descended the stairs down to where the 'N' and the 'R' trains called their domain. He was astonished
that a few people were still shuffling and peeking at the pitch-dark ends of the quiet tunnels. He
sat on a bench to catch his breath and to regroup his thoughts. His knee whispered its throbbing

discomfort. He ignored the pain and prepared himself for the final thrust of his forced quest. His
eyes scanned the area and he became aware of a police officer walking and answering questions
from the defeated passengers who loitered in the station.

He pitied those poor souls with their weak spines and soft hearts, always expecting to be
taken care of. When the sole provider fails to provide, these weaklings crumble to their knees.
They were so helpless, so pathetic, and so shameful. These are the same vermin that succumb to
the vices of drugs and alcohol, to camouflage their failures and weaknesses. These are the sad,
sobbing, coin collecting beggars of the future. He felt like laughing at them. He stood up from
the bench and made sure that nobody was watching him. Nonchalantly he positioned himself next
to the front of the tunnel facing Queens. The empty running escalator at his side rasped loudly,
like the humming of a funeral song. He went down the small steps and allowed the dark shadows
to swallow him whole. After walking for a while, he turned around and all he could make out of
the station that he had just abandoned, was a mere blur of a yellowish light. He smiled contentedly
and proceeded with the slow process, the journey to civilization.

He had heard it before, but disregarded the sound as something from above the tunnel.
Perhaps a truck spinning its wheels in a futile attempt to find a grip on the soft loose snow. He
had shrugged it off until now. Now he was sure that what he was hearing were steps trying to keep
up with his pace. Whenever he stopped, the other steps ceased also. His eyes tried to pierce
through the thick darkened shadows. His heart beat loudly, and a cold clammy fear settled in his
neck.
"Hello? he asked in a voice that shook. "I know that you're out there, so either show your
face or stop following me!"

He waited for an answer, relieved that his voice at the end managed to restore its white
shark edge. He started to walk backwards, keeping his eyes alert for any movement. There was
none. He turned and quickened his steps, in a conservative jog. The crashing sound of something
falling on the tracks was loud and menacing. A grumbled curse followed.

He jumped into a run through the garbage-strewn tracks, the pain in his knee elevating to
an excruciating insanity. He pumped his fist wildly, pushing himself over the limit of his stamina.
He had not been aware of the toll that his delirious march through the snow had taken out of him,
until now. The fatigue had finally caught up with him, as he rocked his head to remove the pale
dizziness that was engulfing his mind.

Behind him, threatening laced steps came at him in full throttle, like being chased by an
unseen monster from a sweat-soaked nightmare. He ran hard, harder than he had ever run
throughout his whole pampered life. He stumbled on something on the tracks and miraculously
was able to keep his balance. His bruised knee begged in painful yelps for him to stop. His lungs
sought oxygen that he no longer had. His heart pulsed with an alien fear, which he had never
before experienced. He screamed, sending frightening echoes throughout the confines of the dim
tunnel. The other footfalls were gaining ground. He agonized about his life. He drove himself to
continue the wild dash through the uneven bumpy train tracks. He didn't feel like a shark anymore.
A hand reached out for him. It felt heavy on his shoulder. The grip was strong and angry. He
snatched his shoulder away and ran much harder. His breath came out in tiny whistles. He felt a
heavy object smack his back with force and authority. He winced at the pain and slowed down.
He was struck once more on the back of his knees, and he felt himself falling backwards, while his
hands searched for something to grasp, but found only air. His ribs yelled in pain as a pipe smashed
against them. Hard fists cascaded on his face without mercy. His teeth loosened with the barbaric
force. A heavy boot found his midsection, knocking out the bit of wind he had left in his lungs.
The pipe came crashing down on his head as his consciousness began to drift away. He felt many
brusque hands going through his pockets, ripping them like cheap fabric. It felt like being raped.
His eyes fluttered, unable to concentrate on what was transpiring in front of him. The entire tunnel
spun like a Merry-Go-Around gone haywire. He tasted the salty blood from his lips, as more thick
blood ran freely from the side of his head. Before he lost his awareness and entered the cold
darkness of delirium, he heard his attackers laugh and wish themselves a Merry Christmas.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He found himself smiling at the situation. It
was all a dream, or more precisely, a nightmare. Very realistic he admitted but nevertheless a
figment of his own wild imagination. He closed his eyes again and returned to sleep.

He awoke abruptly at the soft touches upon his face. He blinked quickly to remove the
glaze in his vision. When his eyes focused clearly, an older man was kneeling in front of him
wringing a handkerchief. The elder's dark, chiseled face was shiny and was shadowed by the dim
light. He tried to get up, but sharp pains shot through his body like electrical jolts. He touched his
lips, and felt the swollen mess that they had become. He slid his hand to the side of his head, and
he massaged a sensitive bump the size of a softball. A heavy wool blanket was wrapped around
his shoulders, keeping the warmth from escaping his body. He drifted once more into a silent,
muddled sleep. And as he sailed into the blackness, he knew that it wasn't a dream after all.

He came out of his slumber slowly. He glanced around at his surroundings. It was some
makeshift living quarters, with large cardboard boxes and blankets. It was a small area inside the
subway tunnels, which society had lost track of. The place was murky, with the smell of old
batteries left out to dry. He shifted his body, awakening the tormenting aches that covered him.
The old man came back to him holding a cup.
"Mister, we thought that you were dead, the man whispered as he helped him with the
cup. "Now drink this, but slowly. It will help you."

He drank with help from the old man, as the sweet grapy wine invaded his empty stomach
like a bomb. He grimaced and shrunk back. The old man smiled with a toothless smile.
"I apologize for the choice of wine Mister. I just ran out of the Dom Perignon, the oldtimer chuckled. "Now just slow down, you hear, and eat some bread; it will make you feel much
better."

The old man offered him a piece of stale Italian bread. He took the bit of the loaf from the
dark man and munched on it. He had forgotten how hungry he was as the bread tasted like the
best thing he had ever eaten in his life. The growling in his stomach started to sooth itself, as he
washed down the bread with more wine. He felt like a disciple of Jesus at the Last Supper.

"Where am I? he finally asked, not surprised that it hurt to talk. "What happened?"

The man poured more wine in the tin cup and before placing the cap on the bottle, he took
a shot. The old black man brushed his lips with the back of his hand and started to talk. "Well
Mister, you're lucky that you're still in one piece. What the hell were you thinking? It was very
stupid walking through a part of town you have no business visiting. With your fine clothes and
soft leather shoes. Now what were you thinking in the first place?"
"I was trying to walk to Queens, he responded as he gave the old man the empty cup and
nodded a thank you. "I guess I didn't take into consideration the other circumstances besides the
weather."

"Thank the Lord that He was looking out for your ass!"
"No, thank you, he contradicted the old man.
"Now, now, the dark man protested. "Let's thank the Lord Jesus Christ for putting me on
your path. Without Him, we are nothing."

He smiled at the elder through hurting lips. He sat up higher, resting his back against the
soiled wall. "What is this place? he asked, while he motioned with his hand. The old man
followed the hand as if it was the first time he was looking around.

"Just a place to crash and spend the night. Nothing fancy, but a place that we don't get
kicked out from or nothing like that, the old man revealed with a certain pride in his voice. "When
you don't have a home, any place that feels comfortable and safe, that becomes home. Unless the
police or the crackheads find it and we are forced to find another place, which is not that easy.
Like they say, New York needs more prime real estate."

He watched the old man closely, trying to figure out the position he had placed himself in.
The black man's name was Paul, and for the next half-hour they talked about nothing in particular,

just small talk to distract each other from boredom. The other homeless around them began to
wake up, and one by one they came to look at and to talk to the new stranger in the group. Some
stared at him with sympathy, others with pity. But everyone was sincere, and did their best to help
him in any way possible. They shared with him the little that they had, and each took their turn in
retelling all about their plight. One had been a schoolteacher. His name was Michael. He had
fallen on bad times and found himself strapped with a sickness called alcoholism. "It's like any
other disease, Michael had explained. "Just like cancer or AIDS. It sneaks up behind you and
before you come to realize what's going on, it eats at you little by little."

Joe had been a butcher in a busy slaughterhouse in Hunts Point up in the Bronx. The
company decided to re-locate somewhere in the mid-west. He lost his job and soon was seduced
by the bottle in order to forget the bills that were piling up. Peter was a victim of slow retardation
who had fallen through the cracks of the city's bureaucracy and its bullshit.

They all had stories to tell. Some were sad, some were stupid, and some were just
senseless. But they all had the common denominator of being homeless, ridiculed by the lucky
ones with homes. Society had given up hope for them and instead of trying to reach out and help
them, they were thrown inside heartless shelters where only the strongest survived. Places that
were infested with drug-crazed demons and cruel administrators that only cared about their cushy
benefit-filled city jobs.

The welfare hotels were gold mines for the crooked politicians and absentee landlords,
whose only concern was how many funds could be squeezed from the city's coffer. Nothing more,
nothing less. At first he tried to debate with them. To reason with them. Sometimes he even
admitted the prejudice he had for the vagabonds of the city. But the more they spoke, the more he
listened and understood. These were people with faces and thoughts and emotions. They were
not faceless vermin, the way he had categorized them before. Like Millie, a small Puerto Rican
woman, and mother of five. She had fallen for the lies of a lazy, handsome Casanova, which cost
her everything she had, even her children, who were being raised by her mother. Through a smile
that at one time was beautiful, she proudly exclaimed, "I still have my dignity. I'm still a human
being!"

He listened quietly, and a shameful sorrow grew in his heart. He felt like dirt. Throughout
his precious, gifted life, he had sneered at anyone that was not a member of his elite group. Anyone
beneath him was a nobody. Faceless, soulless, with no right to be seen nor heard. Today was
Christmas Day. All around the city, the nation, the world, people were celebrating. Opening gifts
and giving kisses and hugs.

Children laughing hysterically, showered with brand new toys.

Radiant Christmas trees blinking in the early, white, Christmas morning and embracing the pictureperfect scenery with their pine fragrance. Everything impeccable and free of frivolous worries to
ruin their flawlessness. But yet, under all the tinsel and sweet Christmas carols, under all the
eggnog and fruitcakes, the new sweaters and comfortable slippers, another world existed. A world
where it does not stop hurting just because its the wonderful holiday season. It does not stop to
open colorful wrapped boxes with big red bows. It does not stop, because it has no reason to stop.
Today is another day that will bring more sorrow and disillusionment.

It brings more hunger

pains to the small children who do not care if Santa Claus is real or not. They don't wish for a
Tonka truck or a glamorous Barbie. All they wish for is a decent warm meal and a chance for a
better life.

He lowered his head and thought about his selfishness and his lack of understanding. He
heard a commotion of steps and the rattling of keys coming from the darkness. When the
newcomers entered the small dingy chamber, he shook with happiness. There were four police
officers and an EMT crew, led by Paul. They came to him and placed him on a stretcher and
attended to his wounds. They asked him questions on top of questions. Senseless questions to fill
out forms, which would end up on someone's desk, only to be ignored before the week was over.
He glanced towards Paul and he realized what the old man had done. He knew that the moment
the cops were aware of this hidden little corner, Paul and his friends would have to move on to
another undiscovered place. And even if the patrolmen would look the other way, surely the
crackheads and violent thugs would swarm the whole area and create havoc. He was deeply
touched by the selfless action Paul and the others had taken. For the love of their fellow man, they
had sacrificed something special. Their home. The only thing that they had, they willingly
forfeited just to save his life. They had given him a gift for Christmas, which he would always
cherish and never forget. It was priceless and he was saddened that he had nothing to give them

in return. He looked around their shabby little home, smaller than his own bathroom. They all
filed up to him. They shook his hand and gave him encouraging words. Millie kissed his forehead
and gave him a pen, which she sold in the trains for a dollar. Paul was the last one to bid him good
wishes. The old man's big toothless smile spread proudly. "Now you take care of yourself, you
hear? And stay away from those walks on the tracks. You'll be surprised how big the rats are."

He smiled at Paul with aching lips and grabbed the old man's hand not wanting to let go.
"How can I repay you? he asked as tears flooded his eyes. There was sadness, but yet joy also in
his face. "Please I owe you so much. I want to do something. Please."

"You don't have to do nothing. The Lord will take care of us. Just follow your heart and
do whatever you feel is rightyou know what I mean."
He squeezed Paul's hand and then he let go. He mouthed the word Goodbye, and lowered
his head. As he was carried out, his eyes fell on a small Christmas tree standing on top of a wooden
crate. The tree was tiny and depleted and he knew it had seen better Christmas Days. Most likely
someone had thrown it away. And here, beneath the glamour of the big city, beneath the fine
clothes and expensive dinners, beneath all the wrong reasons for Christmas, the little tree had
found a home. Among the true ones. Among the so-called wasted lost souls. He stared back at
them and gave them the sign of peace. And as he was whisked away from the depth of the subway,
he heard Paul and the rest shouting a Merry Christmas farewell.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!"