April Winchell

During the past year, I've gotten a lot of support from a lot of very good people. One of those people goes by the name of Al Segundo. He's been advertising his site on aprilwinchell.com for a while now, and aside from being an exceptionally generous and kind person, he's a fine writer who always entertains me. I asked him to write a special Christmas piece for this site, and he was good enough to send today's entry. I hope you enjoy it, and that you stop by his site to read some of his other excellent work

Merry Christmas to all who come and spend time here, and my heartfelt thanks to those who, like Al, have made such a difference in my life this year.

Christmas Memories from Al Segundo

There is no place like New York City at Christmas time. In addition to the usual deluge of humanity that occupies Manhattan Island for the other fifty weeks of the year, tourists from all over the world arrive and brave crowds and cold to peer into animated store windows. They stand line to get into Radio City Music Hall. The Christmas show, a rare combination of middle aged women in tights and a live Nativity Scene screams “festive” three times a day.

My clearest and most beautiful Christmas memory happened in New York City. I was tending bar at the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue, across the street from a parking lot that used to be Madison Square Garden. It was a bar called O'Brien's Corner, or O'Brian's Corner, the confusion in spelling from a sign painter who was hired to put a replacement sign on the 8th Avenue corner of the building and misspelled the name. He reduced his quoted price by a hundred dollars and it was a bargain Maurice O'Brien couldn't resist. As befits a man of his generosity, O'Brien went all out at Christmas. One string of lights across the top of the back bar, a light up plastic nativity scene on top of the cash register and Glass Wax stenciled snowflakes on mirrors and windows. Talk about festive. This was it.

It was late afternoon on Christmas Day, when the magic began. At the bar were Tommy Sullivan a longshoreman with a roast beef face, “Broadway” Billy Bunker, who was a retired numbers runner, and George Wachtel, a limo driver and part-time leg breaker for a couple of local bookmakers, who was sipping club soda waiting for a call to pick up the family of Walter Cronkite from a party at the Plaza Hotel. This was, at best a sad, displaced little group, myself included. There were three customers in a bar that had twenty stools and ten booths. It was sad, solitary and uneventful, until the good sisters arrived. At about 4 PM the door swung open and there they were, two nuns looking like they just stepped out of “The Bells of St. Mary's”. That is, of course, if the lead roles were taken over by Tina Turner and Goldie Hawn. With broad smiles they approached the bar. Tina, appropriately enough, was carrying a tambourine, holding it like a serving tray. Goldie had what appeared to be a bible under her arm. A closer look, however, revealed that the “book” was actually made of white plastic, with a slot in the top. It was, in fact, a bank. The good sisters were here to collect money from me and my three customers to feed the hungry and house the homeless. They approached each of the customers and wished them a “blessed Christmas”. With a straight face, Wachtel gave each nun $5, and said “God bless you”. Bunker waved them away like I once saw him wave a local news cameraman away as he was headed into one of his many court appearances. So far, it was all remarkably uneventful. Then they got to Sullivan.

Tommy swung around on his stool and asked the nun with the tambourine, if she could “…play that thing”? She ignored the question and started telling Sullivan about all the tragically needy people in New York City at Christmas. Undaunted Sullivan asked again. Then he upped the ante, “If you can't play it, I'll buy it from ya' for $20 and show you how. Jingle Bells, Silent Night or Adeste Fidelis, makes no never mind to me. I'll make that thing talk.” Then he fired the first shot in this holiday extravaganza. Sullivan pressed $20 into Tina Turner's left hand and grappled with her for the tambourine. A mighty tug of war ensued, with Tina ending up sitting on the floor as the result of Wachtel disengaging Sullivan from the tambourine with a solid right hand. He then helped the nun to her feet and began lecturing everyone in the bar about respect for people who dedicate themselves to “…doing God's work”. Wachtel gave her an additional $10 to go with his first offering and Sullivan's $20. A little bruised and battered, the two women of God headed for the front door. Wachtel kept saying how we were all disgraceful and “…very much in the path of some bad karma”.

The two nuns stood on the corner of 50th and 8th for about ten minutes, when a van arrived. It contained four other nuns and a driver who looked like James Earl Jones. Still rubbing her butt, Sister Tina was apparently telling James Earl what had transpired in the bar. She alternated between rubbing and pointing. James Earl looked coldly into her eyes and said something, while he pointed toward the bar. I prepared for the worst. The driver and Goldie got in the van, but Sister Tina headed for our front door. She swung it open and pointing toward Sullivan, she shouted, “We're gonna' hang your fat fucking ass!!” She then rejoined the rest of her merry band of holiday well wishers and headed east on 50th Street.

Sullivan finished his beer and said, “And a merry Christmas to you sister”. Then he informed Wachtel that he owed him $20. Wachtel agreed reluctantly paying him, just as his pager went off for the Plaza pickup. Broadway Billy, Sullivan and I spent the rest of the evening watching the Bob Hope Special and A Christmas Carol, never again mentioning our Hallmark moment. To this day, however, for me Christmas means, presents, lights, eggnog and tambourines.