Terrible But True – Christmas Off The Rails

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It was Christmas Eve in New York City, and Penn Station looked like a goddamn refugee camp. Outside, a freezing rain pelted busy streets awash in festive bunting and deadly ice patches. Inside, thousands of cold wet travelers jostled and shoved, swearing harder with each announcement of further train delays. I’d found a place to wait tight against a wall, sweating in the crowded heat. At my side were two soaked and tearing shopping bags literally bursting with gifts, their now-wet wrappings torn more with each passerby’s inadvertent trample. There may have been tidings of comfort and joy abounding somewhere, but it sure wasn’t here. And as one final red-faced commuter gave my bags a passing – and possibly deliberate – kick, the last of my ‘good will toward men’ quietly trickled away.

Growing up Jewish, I had no real context for Christmas other than it appeared to be a whole lot more fun than Chanukah. The neighbors’ houses were lit up with colored lights and lawn displays, a twinkling tree centered proudly in each living room window. Television was filled with animated specials my parents would not allow me to watch. My non-Jewish friends were nearly apoplectic with anticipation. Meanwhile, I was kept out of all Christmas-themed pageants at school and had to sit in a back room with the two creepy Jehovah Witness kids as if we were being punished. In a way, I guess, we were.

It seemed to me that Chanukah followed the familiar ‘cruel oppression/miraculous triumph’ theme of virtually all Jewish holidays. Mostly, it felt like a lame consolation prize. Eight nights were no match for One Awesome 24 Hours. And while I had no interest or affinity at all for the ‘Christ is born’ part of December 25th, it’s tough to tell a kid he’s forbidden to get excited about bright lights, happy songs and garish amounts of gift-giving on a Super-Special Snowy Day that promises Joy For All. I was never bitter when it came to Christmas, but knew I was stuck a total outsider.

My five-year-old nephew, on the other hand, was in way deep. And while I didn’t get along with his parents for any number of valid reasons, I loved the kid and genuinely enjoyed his annual frenzy of Christmas expectation. But judging from our conversations at Thanksgiving a few weeks earlier, I understood that this year would be different. He had arrived at that life-changing Santa Clause tipping point that all kids must face: Knowing he could still believe if he wanted to, but realizing that he’d have to face the truth soon enough. As the twinkle-lit houses of New Jersey whipped past the windows of the overcrowded Raritan Valley Local, I hoped my suspicions that Christmas is just another of life’s brightly wrapped disappointments would never have to become his.

I reached my brother’s home and heaved my torn bags of tattered gifts towards the general direction of the family’s large artificial tree. My nephew looked at the presents then at me, his face scrunched up in a combination of teary anger and fearful concern. “Why,” he asked, “are you so late?” I softened immediately, going down to one knee and opening my arms. He ran in for the hug. “I thought something happened or you weren’t coming,” he snuffled into my shoulder.

“Well, Jeff,” I said. “Something did happen and I almost didn’t make it.” I sat on the couch, craned my head to make sure his parents were busy in the kitchen and patted the cushion next to me. He climbed up into my lap.

“The train had just left Newark,” I began, “and we were going really fast. Everyone was smiling and singing and happy to be headed home for Christmas Eve. Suddenly the train put on its brakes. There was a long shriek of metal, then these loud, awful thuds. It felt like we hit something – or some things – really big. People and packages were being thrown everywhere. The train finally stopped, and everything went quiet. The conductor opened the door, and I followed him outside to see if I could help. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was a terrible scene.”

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