My worst Christmas ever

It was my worst Christmas ever.
I had to work. I couldn’t be home with my family like most normal people on Christmas Eve night. No, I had to work the 4 p.m. to midnight shift. Just my luck.
I was a very young, very trim, very idealistic, rookie police officer, walking a beat in that section of the city where the subway connected with the Pennsylvania Railroad via one-quarter mile of twisting underground concourse.
The Christmas fairy must have really been angry with me that night, for I was assigned to beat number one: the concourse itself.
It was crisp and sunny as I descended the subway stairs at 4:15 p.m. You always had a sinking feeling (literally) as you approached beat one; as though you would never see the sun again. That was especially true on this December afternoon more than 40 years ago in 1967.
Usually, the rush hour movement of people through the subway concourse could keep you occupied—at least mentally. But this was Christmas Eve. Most center city offices had emptied out hours ago.
I was left with only stragglers and last minute shoppers to contend with, none of whom made especially jovial Christmas companions. This just had to be my worst Christmas ever.
Any day in the concourse was bleak. There could be a raging evening monsoon up above, or a bright, sunlit, spring morning.
No matter. Here it was always gray cement walls splashed with impotent and sparsely placed fluorescent lighting. And there would be no difference tonight, save for the one I carried inside.
This concourse seemed darker, more barren, and far less tolerable than ever before. Boy, this really was turning out to be a rotten Christmas.
I don’t know how many times I had walked the concourse from end to end, hearing little but the repetition of my own footfall. I do remember that not many people say hello to you 20 feet underground. That’s why I guess I was a little startled when approached by an exuberant, pre-adolescent, shoeshine boy at about 6:30 p.m.
These were the days before the high-gloss dress shoe, and shoeshine boys were omnipresent. But this was Christmas Eve, and the concourse was deserted. His greeting of, “Shine, Officer?” was more a plea than a sales pitch.
I stood leaning against the chilly wall, one foot propped up on his shoe box while he rubbed my black oxford to brilliance with a rag whose snapping sound echoed off the concrete.
“What are you doing down here at this time?” I asked rather incredulously.
“I gotta get sixty-nine cents,” he muttered without looking up or stopping his work, “for my mama.”
He tapped my one shoe indicating it was done, and I switched feet so he could begin on the other.
“What do you mean, for your mama?”
“I need sixty-nine cents to get her a Christmas present. After you, I’ll have enough to get it.”
When he finished, I flipped him a quarter: the price of a shoeshine plus a dime tip. He pocketed the coin with a hasty “Thanks!” and took off running toward the south stairway, his shine box slung over his shoulder. Apparently, even young shoe moguls knock off early on Christmas Eve.
I headed down the concourse, walking slowly behind the sprinting boy, twirling my nightstick (yes, we really did twirl our nightsticks!) as I admired my shoes. Too bad nobody else was around to notice how they glistened.
Upon reaching the southern most stairs where the boy had exited, I decided to climb up and see what the above-ground dwellers might be up to. Technically, It was leaving my beat, but what the heck, it was Christmas Eve, and the concourse was desolate. No one would miss me for five minutes.
I came up from the subway onto the street where the surroundings were brighter, but only marginally. There to my left as I reached the surface, was a small drug store. Its two windows were well lit and decorated with silver garland and a display of the various presents one could find in a corner store of that type: toys, pen and pencil sets, alarm clocks, and of course the requisite assortment of after shave.
The only person inside was a gray haired man with spectacles who stood hunched over the counter near the cash register as he spoke on the phone. In those days, it was the only business still open at that hour.
Standing there with his face against the window, tears silently rolling down his face, was my shoeshine boy. I asked him what was wrong, expecting to hear that some heartless teen had taken all his money.
“I ain’t got enough,” he sobbed, never taking his eyes from the window.
“Enough for what?”
“I want that box of candy for my mama’s Christmas present.”
He pointed to a box about six inches square. It was part of the Christmas display, and I could see why a kid would be attracted to it. The box was shiny red cellophane with a gold cardboard bow.
“I thought it was sixty-nine cents,” he continued, “but the man said it’s eighty-nine. I ain’t got enough. I only got seventy-five.” He was still mesmerized by the window.
“Well, all you need is one more shine,” I assured maybe two just to play it safe, and you’ll have enough.”
He turned and pointed to the clock that hung above the counter inside the store. It was 10 minutes to seven.
“The man said he closes at seven. I ain’t got enough time.”
He stood with one hand gently touching the window, his shoulders sagging, his gaze never leaving the box. It was as though he believed that as long as he stared at it, he could somehow still hope to possess it and present it to his mother that evening.
Suddenly, one of the lights went out inside the store. It was closing time!
Fright! Horror! Panic! You would have thought someone hit the kid right in the chest with a sledgehammer.
And I thought I was having a bad Christmas.
Now rookie cops didn’t make a lot of money back then, and I usually didn’t have much more than a dollar or two in pocket change with me. Besides, my job was to protect people, and this lad was in no danger.
I didn’t have much time. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and came up with another quarter.
“Here.” I held it out to him. He looked at it for a heartbeat or two and then realized what it was. Never saying a word or looking up, he grabbed the coin and raced into the store.
I stood outside about six feet in front of the glass door and watched. I saw him pour all his money on the counter as the old man counted it carefully. Then the druggist came over to the window and removed the red box.
The boy stood at the counter observing his every move. The box was placed in a brown paper bag and handed over to the kid. The old man had made his last sale for the day.
The boy came running out the door so fast that I at first thought he would run right into my legs. He was clutching the bag to his chest with one hand while the other held tight to the shine box that had never left his shoulder.
He never acknowledged me.
He didn’t seem to even notice me standing there. He came out the door, made a U-turn, and hurried up the street.
The old man inside was looking at his watch as he came to the front door. He turned a key in the lock and then reached over to switch off the lights. The entire front of the store went dark, and I now stood in darkness, looking in vain for any traces of the candy box elf that had disappeared up the adjoining street.
I went back down into the subway. My loneliness now joined by a deep feeling of not being appreciated. For a time, I even felt as though I had been taken.
My God, what a lousy Christmas!
The concourse was still pretty empty. I walked out onto the subway platform and stood there a few minutes until the train arrived.
Two women carrying packages got off and headed up the stairs to the street. Their shoes made a hollow clomping sound as they walked, but it was soon drowned out by the roar of the outbound subway. Once the train disappeared up the tunnel, there was no sound at all until I started walking again.
The only other sign of life was a woman who sat inside the cashier’s booth next to the turnstile. She was lost in the newspaper as I passed.
I don’t remember much else about that night, but I told my family about the shoeshine boy the next day. I recall saying something like, “The kid ran by me like I wasn’t even there!”
It’s funny, but after two decades on the police department, I still remember that night above all.
I met a lot of unique people and did a lot of unusual things, most of which have been forgotten. But I can still see that shoeshine boy’s face as though it was yesterday.
I remember his excitement, I remember his sorrow, I remember his fright, and I remember his indifference as he ran by me.
But as time has passed, I have gained a finer realization of what really took place that night.
And I think—no, I’m positive—that somewhere, perhaps maybe still on that same street by the subway, a middle-aged man tells the story every year about the policeman who came up out of the subway and gave him his best Christmas ever.