Christmas in New York

In this the most joyless of holidays of recent memory I felt the need for some seasonal cheer. Visit the ghosts of Christmas past. So I went over to Grand Central because, to me, that terminal has always been a symbol of a New York Christmas. I'm not sure why. It's not an especially cheerful place, nor does it have any of the souped-up stores and famed holiday decorations of Rockefeller Center. It might just be an old family memory. During the holiday season my father would bring us down here from the Bronx to walk around the cavernous hall. He would spring for hot chocolates and donuts and maybe a movie at a midtown theater.

Walking across 42nd St. on a weekday afternoon, the stores are empty. Even the 25% OFF signs can't draw them in. You see more American flag decorations than holiday ones. They tell us it's so easy to be patriotic in 2001. All you have to do is go out and drop a wad of dough and you're one good American. It seems New Yorkers are not heeding that message; the businesses on 42nd St. seem to have written off Christmas this year. Even the streets are devoid of holiday decorations except for a few wreaths on some buildings and the lights on the Park Ave. trestle. The area is very quiet. The Rasta bootblacks outside the terminal buff men's shoes as they sit reading the Times.

Inside the main terminal I look up at the vaunted ceiling with the painting of all the constellations. This is New York's Sistine Chapel. Then a laser show starts to bounce off the ceiling with dancing candy canes and flying lambs. I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's like some cheesy early-80s Hayden Planetarium laser show?only there's no Pink Floyd music. Commuters rush by, ignoring the performance. Parents stand over a few young kids sprawled on the cold marble floor, staring up at the ceiling in wonder as I once did. An angry homeless man interrupts any holiday mirth when he walks by ranting, "I don't give a fuck. I'm going to take over the Earth."

I walk out of the main room and head down a corridor. I hear "Silent Night" and move to a hallway where a group of PETA operatives are showing a video of calves being killed and lambs being slaughtered. They're an earnest group of white youngsters trying to draw a crowd to their video by handing out leaflets with sayings like, "Violence begins with a fork," and "Holidays are murder on turkeys."

And then I see it. A white, makeshift wall with a sign on top: New York's Wailing Wall. I stop and stare at it and I feel a lump in my throat. There they are. All those missing-person posters from 9/11. I am looking at them again like it's the first time I ever saw them.

I move closer and see a torn brown bag that has a man's name written on it in crayon. Underneath are his children's names, plus the fact that they are looking for their daddy. On the next panel I see a familiar face?Orio Palmer, a Bronx son I knew as a teenager. In the photo he's all grown up in his battalion chief uniform. His memorial service was a month ago; his body has yet to be found?probably never will be. I find another poster of a guy I went to high school with?firefighter Charley Garbarini. He's holding his new bride and looking like 9/11 is a long way off.

I move against a marble wall and watch how others passing by are slowed down by this tribute. Some reach out and gently touch a picture. Others just stare at the posters and shake their heads, wondering how this happened. A young female police cadet hurries by, looking away from the Wailing Wall. She knows what she's getting into.

I walk back to the wall for a last look. One poster catches my eye. A handsome, smiling black man named John Briley. There's the usual information, and then, scrawled in magic marker across the bottom, is: Found?Thank God.

Well, Merry Christmas, John Briley, and may you always stay found.