Editor’s Note: I began my journalism career while self-employed as a subway musician. I sold a column for $25 a week to the East Coast Rocker/Downtown, entitled The Street Singer’s Beat, which ran from 1987-94. It documented my life as a subway musician, and included over 350 interviews with colleague street and subway performers. The following is one of those columns.
It had been a lucrative Friday, like all Fridays during the Christmas season. 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 dent in the world, and all I had to show for my dreams were two pockets bulging with change and a bunch of crumpled up single and five-dollar bills. Chump change. And I couldn’t lie to myself any longer about the fact I was getting older in a young person’s world. Perhaps I just didn’t have what it took to make a mark on this earth. My dreams, in short, had turned into doubt and despair.
Walking down the street, I recalled a musician I once knew. He was a great sideman and could play lead guitar like nobody’s uncle. This guy was married when I first met him and had a kid. He used to always tell me how he was going to make it one day in music, but in the meantime he held a day job as a butcher to support his family. Eventually, the guy began to breakdown with booze and drugs, and began to backslide down the apex of his life. I surmised that the stress of his not achieving his dream combined with his obligation to support his family caught up with him.
And now I was married with a family of my own. Slowly the word compromise began to seep, like the icy water through my worn winter boots, into my soul. Even fellow writers, all unmarried, began to use the word compromise in my regard. They would advise me in friendly tones how life sometimes throws curve balls and that I must make sacrifices for my family.
As darkness descended on Gotham, 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 bar stool next to me and looking over my shoulder.
“How’s it going?” I asked, somewhat wary, stacking the quarters in 4s. “My name’s Stephen.”
“I’m old St. Nick,” the man replied. “But most people just call me Santa. I often listen to people’s stories. Do you have one? Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Even though I didn’t know this man from Adam, I proceeded to spill out my entire life story. I let him know about my upbringing and my experiences as a so-called adult. For his part, Santa lent me his ear and listened intently, occasionally tugging at his long white beard or sipping at his drink. Finally, as I gave the bartender the coins in exchange for paper money, I finished my story, and feeling spent, finished my pint of beer in a gulp and ordered another.
“Man, it sounds like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Santa said at last. “In fact, I think you need your Christmas present a little early this year. But first, let me ask you, 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. Develop a never-say-die attitude with your aspirations. Having a family is an asset and not something that brings you down. It is something that spurs you on. Man, only a fool compromises with something they truly believe in. Man, you’ve got the world by its tail and you 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 the money you made today. In a life of mortality there is no such thing as compromise. You’re born, you live and then you die. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Why it’s a miracle that we can even sit here at this bar and have a drink. Life is a gift and if you have a dream, work toward achieving it. If someone else has accomplished their dream then you can accomplish yours. It’s logic. If someone else can do it, you can.”
“What about these friends who tell me I should compromise and give up on my music?” I said.
“You call them friends? Do they pay your rent? Do they make love to you at night? Man, them people ain’t your friends, and you’d best just hush up around them about any doubts or despairs you may have, because they’re just looking for reasons to cement thoughts that they already have. People often need reasons to think. Reasons help them out in opinions they may have about themselves and their own values concerning what is good and not. Remember, the more you talk to some people about personal things, the more you lose your power. 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 me why not follow me outside.”
As we left the bar, a cold winter wind howled and rattled the window of the bar. 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 minutes I heard a loud jingling sound in the night sky.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa laughed as he got into the sleigh and pulled off into the night sky. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
