Week #22 of My Liquid Diet: A Communist Christmas

Miracle on East 7th Street.

Wrap-up:

• Beginning weight (July 14): 230 lbs.

• Weight at Start of Week #2: 222

• Weight at Start of Week #3: 218.4

• Weight at Start of Week #4: 215.3

• Weight at Start of Week #5: 215.1

• Weight at Start of Week #6: 211.2

• Weight at Start of Week #7: 208.1

• Weight at Start of Week #8: 204.3

• Weight at Start of Week #9: 201.9

• Weight at Start of Week #10: 199

• Weight at Start of Week #11: 196.8

• Weight at Start of Week #12: 194.4

• Weight at Start of Week #13: 193.5

• Weight at Start of Week #14: 190.2

• Weight at Start of Week #15: 185.6

• Weight at Start of Week #16: 183.8

• Weight at Start of Week #17: 182.3

• Weight at Start of Week #18: 179.4

• Weight at Start of Week #19: 177.6

• Weight at Start of Week #20: 177.2

• Weight at Start of Week #21: 173.5

• Weight at Start of Week #22: 174.6

• Weight at Start of Week #23 (current week): 173.7

Total weight loss so far: 56.3 lbs.

Five weeks to go (I’d previously miscalculated!).

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’Tis the season for eggnog — I’ve been known to drink it straight from the carton! But alas, eggnog isn’t on the list of permissible liquids on my liquid diet. (I suspect a single serving would max out my calorie count for the entire week.) Still, I’m feeling the old holiday spirit as I fondly recall a magical Christmas Day from my childhood.

My parents were arguing — again. It was Christmas Eve in 1964; I was five years old.

My mom had won custody in a bitter divorce from my dad when I was only a baby. Though they were both card-carrying members of the Communist Party who sought to abolish private ownership, one thing they had the darnedest time sharing was me. Dad could only have me every other weekend — with one exception: He always got me for Christmas. Dad loved Christmas. For one thing, he loved Jesus, whom he considered the original Jewish Communist. For another, as he’d explained to me, Santa Claus had to be a Communist — he redistributed all the toys equally to all the children of the world, not to mention that the elves reportedly ran a union shop. Mom, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about Christmas. Getting to spend every Christmas with my dad made it the happiest day of the year for me.

But today something was wrong. They were shouting at each other in the entryway to Mom’s apartment. I gave up struggling to put on my galoshes, got up from the living-room couch, and sidled over to the foyer, so I could eavesdrop.

Mom was saying that she wanted to hold on to me for Christmas this year. Dad was apoplectic.

“But we had an agreement!” he bellowed.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. She had that look in her eyes — the look she always got whenever she’d say to me, in flat tones, “The discussion is at an end.”

“No!!!” I screamed.

They both turned to stare at me. I was beside myself. I’d been looking forward to this Christmas with Dad since … well, since last Christmas.

Seeing me start to melt down, Mom relented.

“Okay, Paul, you can have him for Christmas. But bring him back on time, for once!”

Disaster averted!

Dad helped me get all bundled up in my boots and coat and hat and mittens and led me towards the front door.

I hugged my mom goodbye and followed my dad out into snowy Washington Heights.

After the divorce, my parents had staked out opposite ends of Manhattan: Mom up here near the northern tip of Manhattan, Dad down on the Lower East Side.

On the subway ride downtown, I was in a thoughtful mood. There was something I’d been wondering about — rumors had been flying in Mrs. Spielhagen’s kindergarten classroom at P.S. 128.

“Daddy,” I said, “is there really a Santa Claus?”

He paused before answering.

“Joshy,” he said at last, “we are Marxists — dialectical materialists — and we don’t believe in fairy tales. We live in the real world. And I think you’re old enough to hear the truth: No, there is no Santa Claus.”

“But — but … Then how do we get our toys?”

We had reached the Union Square station and were heading upstairs to the street, where we’d catch the bus for East Seventh Street, between Avenues C and D, where Dad lived in an ancient, crumbling tenement building. Now he busied himself with filling his corn-cob pipe from a pouch of Prince Albert tobacco, then lighting it — possible delaying tactics before answering my question. Finally we were up at the bus stop.

“Well, how, Daddy?” I pressed him.

He gazed down at me.

“Joshy, what really happens is, every Christmas morning, the delivery man from S. Klein’s department store loads up his delivery van — and distributes toys to all the good boys and girls around the world.”

At that very moment we were standing right in front of S. Klein’s! Coincidence? Who can say? In any case, Dad’s explanation made total sense to me. Santa Claus was obviously made up, while S. Klein’s was right there. I was proud that I’d reached the level of maturity that he could trust me with the real story of Christmas, not that baby one!

S. Klein’s, back in the day.

S. Klein’s was where you went for deep discounts in those days — things were way cheaper there than at Macy’s or Gimbel’s, up in tonier Herald Square.

“Hey, Paul!”

Someone was calling out to my dad from in front of S. Klein’s. We turned to look. It was Tony “Little Tiger” Lopez, co-leader — with Jonny Lubell — of the Royal Bishops, then the largest (and most feared) gang in New York City. My father was a social worker with the city, and his assignment was to gain the trust of these young ne’er-do-wells and turn them into peaceful, hard-working members of polite society. He had gained their trust — and affection — but had been less successful at getting them to stay employed for any length of time. For these failures, his bosses had repeatedly put him on probation. Finally, they’d given him one last chance: find steady work for the Royal Bishops, or lose his own job. To this end, he’d managed to get S. Klein’s to hire all of them to work in the stockroom during the holiday rush. For the sake of his career in social work, it was crucial that they hold on to these jobs through season’s end.

So what were they doing loitering in front of the store, smoking cigarettes and kibitzing?

“Get back inside, guys!” Dad implored. “You need to be working!”

“We’re just on our break, Paul,” Jonny Lubell assured him. “Don’t worry!”

“Hi, Joshy!” Tony “Little Tiger” Lopez called out.

I smiled and waved back at him.

That night, after Dad had tucked me into my little bed, under a mound of blankets, I felt snug — and smug: Unlike all the little kids who still believed in Santa Claus, I had put away childish things and was now living in the truth of the delivery man from S. Klein’s. In much the same way, the proletariat would one day abandon their delusions of capitalist success and fully embrace the Revolution. Workers of the world, unite — you have nothing to lose but your upscale department-store chains!

As on previous Christmas Eves, I labored mightily to stay awake until my presents were delivered. But whereas before I’d listened for the tinkle of sleigh bells, now I awaited the mighty engine rumble of the S. Klein’s delivery van. At some point I could hold my eyes open no longer, and drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke everything was quiet, aside from my father snoring on his big floor mattress.

I ran over to our Christmas tree, and … nothing! There were no presents waiting for me!

Shocked to my core, I let out an uncomprehending howl and then burst into tears.

Looking back on that morning, I realize that Dad had meant to wake up before me and place my presents, which he had hidden somewhere, under the tree. But — perhaps because of the strain and exhaustion of desperately trying to hold on to his job, not to mention that tense contretemps with Mom — he’d overslept.

Now my aggrieved bawling awakened him.

“Why, Daddy? Why? Did the delivery man from S. Klein’s decide that I hadn’t been a good boy? I’ve tried to be good!”

At that moment, Dad must have felt torn. He could reveal where he’d been hiding my gifts — but then I’d learn that the whole story of the delivery man from S. Klein’s was just another lie, like the Santa Claus myth that had preceded it. And if I began to lose faith in his stories, would I still believe him when he told me, over and over, that I was going to lead the Communist Revolution?

A conundrum!

Before he could come up with an answer for me, I heard a noise from outside. A tinkling kind of sound.

Dad heard it too.

We both went over to the window and Dad pulled it open, letting in the cold wind and some fluffy snowflakes. The fire escape was right outside. Dad kept the ladder extended down, so any burglar trying to make a getaway from our second-story apartment wouldn’t hurt himself getting back to the sidewalk. He had explained that robbers were just victims of class society, so even if they were stealing from us, we had to show them solidarity.

Photo by Emily Kam.

The tinkling was louder now.

That’s when I saw it — a rack of ladies’ pantsuits, wire coat hangers a-tinkling, coming around the corner from Avenue D. It was being pushed by Jonny Lubell. Then, behind it, a big bin of toys, propelled by another member of the Royal Bishops. These were followed by a seemingly endless procession of racks of clothes and bins of toys and appliances and other merchandise — all recently liberated from the S. Klein’s stockroom, and all being guided down East Seventh Street by the Royal Bishops.

Up and down the block, windows were opening. People were sticking their heads out.

Tony “Little Tiger” Lopez, wearing a Santa cap and a fake white beard, was striding down the center of the street, yelling, “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, one and all!”

People streamed out into the street to claim their gifts, while the Royal Bishops started tossing cheap suits and stuffed animals up towards open windows. In our tumbledown neighborhood, blighted by poverty and drugs, this felt like nothing less than a holiday blessing!

When Tony “Little Tiger” Lopez saw me and Dad smiling down at him from our window, he grabbed a big sack of toys and began hauling them up our lowered fire-escape ladder.

“Merry Christmas, Joshy!” he roared. “Ho ho ho!”

I turned to my father. “Daddy,” I said, “why did you only say it was the delivery man from S. Klein’s? You could’ve been more specific — you could’ve told me it was Tony ‘Little Tiger’ Lopez!”

Now, nearly six decades later, I can still remember the complicated expression on my father’s face. He must have felt conflicted.

On the one hand, he had to know at that moment that his job with the city — indeed, his career as a social worker — was over.

But on the other hand, here was proof that, even for godless folk such as ourselves, sometimes — if you’ve been trying to be good, if your heart is filled with love, if you have faith — sometimes, somehow, miracles do happen.