Around the corner of 68th and Columbus there was a Christmas tree stand that offered a variety of trees of all shapes and sizes to the people of New York. The many who live alone settle for one of those shorter trees that are easier to carry. Those usually went for $30. They cost $25 to those who knew how to bargain down. Those with families, especially the ones who had children had to go for the large ones. Those were much more expensive. But nothing made Christian people feel more blissfully festive that those glittering lights that shun within the realm of that fresh winter pine. Or at least that was what they always told me.
Regardless of what anyone may say or think, there was something special about the Christmas season for any of us regardless of religion. These days, no one is allowed to refer to it as the Christmas season any longer. You were supposed to say the Holiday season. No one wanted to offend anyone else these days. We were all tipping toeing around one another’s hypocritical toes.
Even though the snowstorm was getting worst with every passing minute, she continued to stand out there in the cruelty of the snow. On the other side of the window, people sat gathered within the confines of that corporate warmth. Sipping on hot chocolates and soy lattes, they had no sympathy for the poor Christmas tree girl who was freezing her tits off for $6.75 an hour. To those who actually took the time to notice her, she appeared like an anomaly, like a white polar bear who ran around the Central Park zoo, like the kind of a person whose disposition made us all feel that much better about our own lives.
It was rather atypical for me to find myself around these parts of the city. I never really understood what the big deal was about the upper west side.
An hour later, as the wind bashed across my face, I thought about it all and smiled away. Holding on to a small Christmas tree under left armpit and her number scribbled on a small note within my right pocket, I felt so alive and thought about just how great it was to be a Jew in Manhattan around this time of the year.
Hard-Boiled Men