Everyone exchanged glances.
Finally Dante said, “Face it, boss. There’s no holiday cheer out there because the holidays have become a grind. Everyone’s fed up with tinseled-up stores pushing commercial kitsch.”
“Yeah, what’s good about gridlock season?” Kiki said. “Out-of-town tourists and bridge-and-tunnel bargain hunters swinging shopping bags like medieval maces? A herd of them nearly ran me over today rushing across Thirty-fourth!”
“And don’t forget those corporate Scrooges all over the city,” Banhi added. “I temp at an office where all they do is gripe about having to use half of their bonuses to buy gifts for their families.”
“Well, don’t talk to me about ‘holiday cheer’—” said Esther, putting air quotes around the offending phrase. “I’m still gagging over my perfect, older, married sister’s annual year-end newsletter about her perfect suburban life.”
“I should have the Christmas spirit,” Tucker admitted. “Given my latest gig.”
“What’s that?” asked one of the guys in Gardner’s group.
“Dickie Celebratorio absolutely adored that limited-run cabaret I put together last summer, so he hired me to cast, direct, and choreograph his big holiday bash at the New York Public Library. We’ve been in rehearsal for two weeks now.”
“Celebratorio’s that big party planner, isn’t he?” I asked.
Tucker’s boyfriend, Punch, nodded. “It’s being sold to the press as a fund-raiser for New York’s public libraries, but it’s really a PR event for that big-selling children’s book they just turned into a movie.”
“Ticket to the North Pole?” Esther said. “Isn’t that whole thing set in Santa’s workshop or something?”
Tucker nodded.
“So you’ve basically hired a bunch of actors to play Santa’s elves?” Esther pressed.
Tucker sighed. “The money’s excellent, but when you get right down to it, my job’s essentially—”
“Head Elf,” Esther finished with a smirk.
Tucker shrugged. “Like I said, I should be in the holiday spirit, but the material’s just so cheesy.”
That’s it, I thought. I can’t take any more. “Santa Claus is not cheesy!” I cried.
Dead silence ensued.
“You’re all forgetting what this season is really about!”
Everyone stared. I’d just become Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas.
“Well?” Esther finally said. “What’s it about, boss?”
I threw up my hands. “Giving! Selfless giving! That’s what we’re celebrating! The Christ child’s birth is a gift of love to a weary world! All these symbols—the tree, the lights, the carols—it all comes down to love!”
No one moved as my words reverberated off the restored tin ceiling and echoed through the newly decorated shop. For a full minute, we actually had a silent night.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at the flabbergasted expressions around the room. After all, this was the age of irony, when cynicism was the conventional norm, which was why a blasphemous string of curses would have gone over without a batted eyelash. The truly radical act these days was sincerity. Consequently, our silent night continued—until a single voice boomed—
“. . . all right, Breanne! I heard you! Don’t come, then!”
Matt had been striding into the main room from the back pantry area. Suddenly he stopped.
Yes, Matt, the entire tasting party just overheard the unhappy end to your personal call.
His cheeks, no longer ruddy from the frosty outdoors, began reddening again for an entirely different reason. Then his pleading eyes found mine—a search for rescue—and I immediately clapped my hands.
“Hey, everyone!” I shouted with forced cheer. “You know what this Taste of Christmas party needs?”
All eyes now abandoned Matt and turned to me.
“What, Clare?” Tucker asked. “What does it need?”
“Santa Claus!”
Three
Unfortunately, Santa was late.
Earlier in the day, I’d invited St. Nick to drop by our Fa-la-la-la Latte tasting, but he hadn’t shown.
“I can’t believe Santa would stiff you,” Esther said. “Not with his daughter coming.”
Santa’s daughter happened to be my ex-barista, Vicki Glockner. And Santa Claus was really Alfred Glockner, our local sidewalk Santa, also known as—
“Alf?” Matt said. “Are you talking about Alf?”
I nodded.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew—and loved—Alfred Glockner. Even without his long white beard and Traveling Santa suit, Alf was a huggable guy. On the slightly paunchy side, he wore his graying hair in a retro sixties ponytail and his salt-and-pepper mustache in a slightly walruslike David Crosby-esque style. His ruddy face was close to jack-o’- lantern round, his vivid hazel-green eyes completely lit it up, and for the past month he’d been using the Blend to take a bathroom break or warm his bones.
Because his daughter had once worked as a barista here, I could see why he felt at home in my coffeehouse; and because he was collecting for groups that helped the city’s homeless and hungry, I was more than happy to supply all the free lattes the man could drink.
It was a fair exchange, too. Every time Alf came into the Blend, he’d work our customer line, making even our most jaded regulars laugh, then dig into a pocket to give a little. (And, believe me, getting a coffee addict to laugh before he gets his caffeine fix is no mean feat.)
One of my favorites of his shticks was Santa as urban rapper. He’d ho-ho-ho to a prerecorded hip-hop beat, then start old-school break-dancing in his padded costume. His retro moves included the Robot topped by a Michael Jackson moonwalk. Out on Sixth and Seventh avenues, I’d seen him warm up the coldest crowds, getting them to laugh, applaud, and finally dig out that loose change in their pockets and handbags.
“Alf’s a real trip,” Dante said. “Did you hear his joke this morning?”
“Was it another homeless-dude joke?” Esther asked.
“Homeless dude camps out in front of a Manhattan day spa,” Dante recited. “‘Ma’am,’ the guy says to the first woman who comes out, ‘I haven’t had a bite to eat in two days.’ ‘Wow,’ says Spa Lady. ‘I wish I had your willpower.’ ”
Everyone laughed—just like my customers did this morning. It was a dark joke, but it was funny. And according to Alf, whenever he told his homeless-dude jokes to the men in the city shelters, they laughed the hardest of all.
On one of the many days I sat down with Alf on a latte break, he told me the Traveling Santa thing was “a great gig” for him because he was also working the comedy club circuit. Not only did the Santa act pay him a regular salary, it helped him hone his stand-up routine.
Twice a week, he even made time to bring his Santa act to soup kitchens and homeless shelters. “Those places can give a person a bed or a hot meal,” he’d told me, “but what they need even more is laughter—a leavening of the life force, you know?”
He truly did embody the spirit of Christmas.
Matt stepped up and pulled me aside. “I saw your Santa on my way here.”
“Where?” I asked. “Close by?”
Matt nodded. “He was pushing his sleigh down Hudson.”
Unlike the Salvation Army, whose bell ringers staked out permanent locations throughout the city, the Traveling Santas lived up to their name by roving the busy streets. They pushed small wheeled “sleighs” in front of them while cheerfully coaxing pedestrians to throw money into “Santa’s bag.” As Alf himself said, the gig was made for him.
“So he was heading for the Blend?” I assumed.