I was headed downtown to visit friends in from far away. After a groggy start to Christmas Day, a day that generally fills me with despair, I was running late, well after the time I’d told my friend I’d aim for. I had a twenty minute or so southward train ride to get there, then a short walk west.
As you approach the elevated Number One line at Dyckman Street you can see up the track almost to the next station north. If you see the southbound train coming around that bend, experience teaches you can catch that train if you run into the station, Metrocard in hand, and make a smart dash straight up the steep steps.
I went through the turnstile and made my dash smartly, but there was no train. The one I’d seen, apparently a mirage. There was no train on the horizon either. I noticed how winded I was, I’ve run up these stairs many times– this was the most winded I’ve been. I walked it off.
At the end of the platform a man was talking on the phone with his back to me. He had a baby carriage with him. The baby was also turned away from me, but I noticed how solicitous the man was, walking the baby carriage in little circles to soothe the baby. I watched them absently for a moment, thinking of the human parent’s instinct, if everything falls right, to comfort their child. I recall feeling impressed with how this guy was taking care of his baby.
The train came. The man turned the baby carriage slightly to move his child on to the train. I could now see that the baby was a full grown beagle, sitting very patiently upright in the baby carriage. I made a note to tell this story to my friends when I arrived, but as things happened I forgot about it.
We exchanged handshakes, hugs and pleasantries and then my friend said “I have a small gift for you,” as if remembering some trifle. He went into the other room and returned with the best gift anybody has ever given me, possibly the best gift anyone has ever given anybody. “It’s really nothing,” he said, handing me a hard-shell ukulele case with the imprint of a palm tree on its shell.
Over the years my friend has mentioned a dream image he has, of himself, sitting on a porch somewhere beautiful at sunset after his work day is done. His work would be gently but firmly bending wood, plying it, smoothing it, skillfully using tools to turn beautiful wood into a beautiful musical instrument. In another life, he’d have loved to have been a luthier.
A few years ago he took a course from a master luthier and made a tenor ukulele, out of beautiful wood, over the course of several weeks. He sent me photos of it at the time and mildly self-effacing comments about the instrument when it was done. I opened the case and there was the hand-made ukulele, a very beautiful one. Everyone I showed it to later could not help stroking it. It is lovingly detailed, with several unique flourishes, and finished to the texture of perfect skin or something like that. It is so silky that it’s hard not to pet it if you hold it in your hands. Everyone who held it did.
It plays beautifully, with a rich tone I haven’t heard from most ukuleles. He also somehow rigged the lowest string to be in a lower octave, as on a guitar, making this uke a much more useful instrument to play melodies on. I smiled as I played a little Django ending that had been impossible to play on my other ukes. Sekhnet could not stop commenting on its beautiful tone, just as I could not stop playing it in the car after we left our friends.
“What an amazing gift!” Sekhnet said, “I hope you really thanked him.” I assured her I did. I think I did, I’m sure I did, I had to have. Of course, now that I’ve played it for hours, and re-tuned it to concert pitch, I’ll sing its praises some more when I talk to him tomorrow. He’d looked at the label inside, with his name and the year he made it, 2009, and told me, since he never played it (although he certainly could), that I should have it, since I would play it. I certainly am playing it.
I played it happily for an hour or so in the background with Sekhet’s family. Each of them had admiringly held and petted the beautiful instrument, a few even strummed the open chord it plays if you don’t finger the frets. I then played it all the way back to the city. When we got back I was concerned that the constantly sleep deprived Sekhnet get some sleep. I left her and walked to the subway to head uptown.
Being Christmas, it was only natural that the train service would be fucked up. The high-tech interactive electronic information signs on the subway platform gave random misinformation. According to the fancy new sign the next A train was a Brooklyn-bound one scheduled to arrive in 46 minutes (average wait is supposed to be about twelve minutes). There was no information about any uptown trains at all. “We’re working harder to serve you better,” I said finally to two other sour-faced men waiting for information on the uptown train to take them home Christmas night.
A moment later there was an incomprehensible PA announcement and a Brooklyn-bound A train rumbled in on the downtown platform. Another announcement began as the Brooklyn-bound train was departing, making a great racket across the station.
The MTA had decided, in its infinite puckishness, to have the crackling, irrelevant, over-driven announcement delivered by the employee with the heaviest and hardest to decipher foreign accent. I don’t know where this guy was born, but I’m sure the last thing his parents ever dreamed of for him was delivering this incomprehensible message to disgusted New Yorkers over the public address system moments after the end of Christmas Day. I have no idea what he said, but I do recall sincerely muttering something about fucking retards that I do not now feel very proud about having muttered.
A dirty, smelly beggar was striking out as he made his way toward me on the platform. He’d start to speak and get waved off. I saw this happen a few times, found I had a single dollar bill in my pocket and thought “what the fuck?” When he came toward me I handed him the dollar, which he dropped.
Before he picked it up, he looked me in the eyes and asked “could you please help me out with two or three more?” I told him I didn’t have it. It was true. My other bills were twenties, and outside of that, I had two pennies. He continued down the platform and I was reminded of my dislike of people who don’t have the grace to say thanks.
On the uptown A, which finally arrived, a large man asked “may I sit next to you?” This is not a question anybody phrases this way on the New York City Subway. It was the only seat in the car, and I nodded, almost imperceptibly, and without looking up from my book, only because it was the right thing to do.
Then, because you know what they say about unpunished good deeds, he began humming in a soulful way, and turned his head toward me as I tried to read, which made his humming suddenly way too loud. He began to sing, in the same manner as his humming, turning his head like a slow moving leslie-speaker to heighten the effect.
He did that African spiritual-inspired melisma, making every quavering note a long, stylized, if cliched, statement of his soul. After a few minutes of this I wanted to do something to make him stop. I thought about my vow to remain mild and kept reading.
A seat opened across the way, and I took it. I couldn’t hear his fucking singing from over there, and it was a relief. Suddenly, I smelled ass, dirty feet, filthy clothes. The smell was coming from the seat behind me, turned out to be a homeless woman. But the smell wasn’t that bad, it was better than the fucking soul singer.
The singer got off a few stops later and I went back to where I’d been sitting. I watched the poor homeless woman, who appeared to be very much insane. I thought of the almost infinite varieties of suffering in this world, and of God and the mythical baby Jesus weeping over it all, less than an hour after Christmas. I took out the ukulele, played a bit of Django’s version of “I’ll See You In My Dreams” and put the lovely instrument into its protective case as the train pulled into Dyckman Street.
As I walked up the hill to my apartment, carrying the perfect tenor ukulele my old friend had made, I thought of the blessings of this life. Those blessings are not the physical things everyone is taught to covet, of course, but what lies behind them, what we might call their spiritual dimension– what they represent in terms of our souls. If the physical manifestation is also a beautiful thing, that’s ideal.
I thought of my friend’s ancient mother, now well-past ninety and noticeably much older than the last time I saw her, not that long ago. She made mention tonight of her approaching death. I’d never heard her speak of death, but when I quickly broached the subject of Trump, during a moment when her son had gone back upstairs to fetch something she’d forgotten, she told me that the only good in it for her is that this would be a good time for her to die.
I told her that my mother, at the end of her life, had begged me to promise her that Sarah Palin would never be the president. I made the promise and I’m as sure as it is reasonable to be that Sarah Palin will never be the president of the United States. There are things as unthinkable as President Sarah Palin, but that’s an imponderable story for another time.
When I put her son’s ukulele in her hands she immediately began stroking it. She admired it for a long time, and mused about how many other hidden talents her talented son had (he was cooking a delicious smelling dinner at the time).
Later, sitting around the coffee table, my friend’s mother smiled, and pointed at her son and her grandson, huddled over the young man’s cellphone, looking at photos of some of the grandson’s recent architectural projects, I assume. To her daughter, with a big smile, she said “kvelling…” This is Yiddish for a parent’s pleasure in seeing their child do something that makes them kvell with pride. The daughter looked at her blankly and asked “who?”
“Me,” said the old woman happily, as she pointed to her chest with a gnarled hand.