I wrote this short story for a fun event in a writing group I am in. My goal was to keep the dialogue, atmosphere, and characteristics as genuine as I could for December 1962, while maintaining the holiday spirit.

Blurb: Inspired by It’s a Wonderful Life, Joe finds himself lost and alone on the brink during a lonely December 1962 in New York City. When despair threatens to consume him, help arrives in the most unexpected forms. A chance encounter with two innocent children offers a path toward hope and a second chance.

Beneath the City Lights

The train hissed as it braked for a stop at Grand Central Terminal pulling into view. Fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead in the train as Joe rose from the olive-green vinyl seats, black briefcase in one hand. He could soon discard the briefcase; he didn’t need it where he was going. A bitter scent of cigarette smoke blew his way, reminding him to grab his from his gray long coat pocket. Then he remembered he had quit smoking months ago. The instinct persisted after years as a chain-smoker.

Gosh dang it, forgot I don’t have cigarettes. But whatever, I don’t need them. I won’t need them soon.

Joe reflected on his earlier days when his heart was full of joy. Those days had long ended, but the memories lingered and caused further grief. All that remained were bills to pay each month, loneliness, and memories. His girlfriend left him for another jerk around the time he quit smoking. She had smoked too, and he didn’t need to be reminded of her. The rage in him pushed him never to touch cigarettes again.

What is the point of anything? It’s a cold world out there. Not only the weather, but people. Nobody cares whether I exist. Selfishness and greed have hardened the world, once gentle and welcoming. Existence involved living, but what living is there in this decayed, hollow world? A curse escaped his breath, little clouds expelled in the air. A middle-aged lady with a scarf gasped next to him and looked away, her face puffed red.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He rubbed his hands, stood, and moved closer to the door. A scowl painted his light complexion. As if she’d never had an awful thought in her life. Nosy hypocrites everywhere.

East is the answer.

The PA announced, “Attention, please. New York Central Railroad, arriving at New York, Grand Central. Watch your step as you disembark.”

As the train pulled in, the dazzling glow of Grand Central swallowed the flickering lights inside. Outside, a policeman’s sharp whistle blew, and the slow movement of people became visible.

A small group of passengers gathered near Joe to exit upon the train halting to a stop. One gentleman and lady squeezed in front of Joe, who sidestepped to give them space. Someone asked for the time. Another man checked his wristwatch and said, “6:10.”

The conductor entered from the front carriage and passed through the carriage. “Grand Central, Grand Central. Have your tickets ready, folks. Grand Central.” On his way through, he tapped each shiny chrome handrail with his clipboard while repeating the announcement.

When the train stopped, Joe peeked outside at the platform. Mobs of commuters rushed back and forth in standing-room only space. The peak hour left a wall of people to navigate before he reached a taxi outside. Usually, he timed his arrival to beat the rush hour crowds, but it was a Friday. He had to clean his desk, and today was different. He cleaned it for whoever took his desk next.

Doors whished open, and he exited with the others into cigarette smoke, his breath fogging. He noted a faint whiff of the train’s oil and heard the metallic door slams from other trains ahead of high-pitched whistles. Those wanting to board the train waited for the passengers to disembark.

Long, wide platforms ran in each direction, held up by dark concrete and steel columns. White tiles covered the walls as far as the eye could see, with a cool, damp breeze blowing. Fluorescent lights lit the scene the same way as the train. Beyond the countless commuters and occasional porters, the area held little of interest. Distant murmurs of voices echoed from the long, ascending passageway.

A boy carrying a bunch of newspapers in a pack walked by, calling, “Extra extra! Blockade lifted! Cuba crisis ends! Extra extra for 10 cents! New York Times! Extra!”

Joe advanced up the curving ramp toward the sound and light of the waiting room, beyond the many platforms. It had been some time since he had fought through crowds. After his girlfriend left him, he stopped accepting overtime shifts. He just wanted to get home, heat a television dinner while watching Walter Cronkite’s CBS Evening News at 6:30. Perhaps watch a rerun of the earlier night’s The Twilight Zone. Once The Dick Van Dyke Show ended at 9, he would be ready for bed. Those days would end today, forever.

Two kids strolled in front of him, holding hands. The younger child in a pink frock and a red wool cap, 6 years old at most, stumbled before the older boy grabbed her. Strange sight at this time of the day, but he dismissed it. 

One said, “Watch your step, Mary!”

The girl rebuked in her high-pitched voice that made Joe chuckle. He found her jabbering away several feet ahead of him, difficult to hear her over the din of the public. A brief PA announcement sounded just then. She reminded him of his younger sister in their childhood. The only part he caught was the girl saying, “But PETER! We must hurry before he leaves!”

Little brats by themselves must be lost or separated. But it’s not my problem. Dang it, just get out of my sight. Others didn’t matter once you expected nothing from them.

“Look at how big it is!” said the girl, exclaiming her excitement with a hand covering her mouth. She pointed to the massive Christmas tree in the middle of the main concourse up ahead, which illuminated the scene. The tree was over 20 feet tall, adorned with shiny orbs, banners, garlands, and a large bright star at the top. Red and green lights flickered throughout the tree.

Joe stood behind them. “Move it, kids. Chop chop!”

Peter, the little boy, pulled her sister to the side. “Sorry, sir!”

After an annoyed head shake and a scoff, Joe passed them. He continued past a large newsstand and shoeshine stands in a row toward the exit. But a chill up his spine made him stop in his tracks. Why, why, WHY am I doing this?

He turned half-circle and traced his steps back to the two. “Are you kids lost? Do you need help?”

The girl shoved her brother aside. “Mista, we are here for him!”

“He? Who?”

“Tell him, Peter!” she exclaimed, tugging at her brother’s sleeve.

Peter straightened his back, cleared his throat, and spoke on her behalf in a deeper voice. “Sir, don’t listen to Mary. She doesn’t understand. We came a long way after I smashed my piggy bank. We’re here to meet Sa-.”

“SANTA!” interrupted Mary, her eyes wide and bright with sparkles. “We came to give Santa our Christmas letters, mista!” She said “chistmas”, unable to pronounce the ‘r’ in her tinny voice.

Joe took a step back, surprised by the response. “Uhhh.” He pulled his dark hat off and switched the hard briefcase from one hand to the other. “You mean.. Santa Claus?”

The kids both nodded and made mm-hmm sounds. Oh dear.

He frowned but offered no words for a moment, looking at them. If only he could tell them the truth about Santa and return home, but the charm on their faces suggested he should keep his mouth shut. “What about your parents? They must be worried sick.”

“Mister,” Peter began, spreading his arms in a humorous gesture he probably picked up from the parents. “Our parents told us Santa goes to the big tree in New York before Christmas. They will know we went to see him.”

Instead of arguing with a child, it was better to seek New York’s finest. He looked around for a cop.

“Hey mista,” said the girl, taking a step toward him. “Why don’t you show us? Pleeease! Santa will be there! We will go home after.”

Joe shook his head in frustration and sighed. “That’s a nice story. But Rockefeller Center is not around the block. And it’s getting late.” He looked around the concourse for someone official. If not a cop, then an attendant. But rush-hour chaos thwarted the possibility, and he couldn’t spot anyone nearby in uniform. Commuters hurried here and there, not paying attention to them, and the continuous announcements. He could drop the two at an information desk, ending his responsibility. But the staff would wait until rush hour subsided, only to bring the kids to the police anyway.

The only other choice was dropping them at the police station on his way—several police precincts were close. Once I dump these stupid kids off, I can head to the East River. “Alright, listen, it’s getting cold, and I have to travel east. I will get you to someone who can help. You must promise to stay close.”

“YIPPEE!” Peter pounded his fist in the air to celebrate.

Mary spun in joy, smiling. “Oh, thank you, mista! Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!”

“Now hold on a minute. Running off from home like that isn’t right. I’m only helping because of the holiday spirit,” said Joe. “You see, there are some bad people out there looking to take advantage of little boys and girls.”

Before they could ask more questions, he urged them to follow him.

The trio made their way across the shiny marble floor, past the hamburger vendor. The scent permeated his nostrils, and his stomach rumbled. “Are you kids hungry?”

Peter shrugged, but Mary nodded, eager and honest. Joe halted the procession and sauntered to the hot pretzel stand. He ordered fresh pretzels, steaming hot out of the oven, and three bottled Cokes he carried. “Come on, eat your pretzels on the way. Stay close!”

Joe took the lead, beckoning people aside, while the siblings followed, holding hands. Their eyes, wide and fascinated, darted from the decorations to the bright lights to the random passersby. They struggled to keep pace, but Joe turned to check periodically.

Their way finally opened onto the Grand Central Terminal’s famous Main Concourse, into a strong smell of burned coffee, perspiration, and exhaust fumes. Its colossal ceiling arched high above, resembling the night sky, and glowed above the glistening marble floors that adorned it.

The station, modeled after Rome’s Baths of Caracalla and the magnificent Pantheon, towered like a Roman cathedral. Most people got acquainted with the station’s richness that it grew to be second nature during later visits. The crowd noise rose into a raucous clamor that reverberated throughout the opulent room. Long lines coiled through, and slick, white marble dotted the floors, worn out by five decades of millions of travelers. Radio over the PA played “Santa Claus is Comin’ To Town.” A few food vendors were packing for the night, locking their stalls. Renovations happened now and then, yet the bulk had remained since 1913.

“Peter, look!” Mary slowed to admire the iconic golden zodiac constellations drawn on the ceiling that everyone noticed upon entrance. The roof’s sheer size made people appear like ants.

“Have you never seen this station before? We’re not here for sightseeing. Keep moving, kids,” reprimanded Joe. He had the same experience, almost spiritual, when he first stepped into Grand Central as a child thirty years prior. Over time, it became secondhand sight he didn’t care to process. But today, he looked up and experienced a forgotten awe stir within him, one he hadn’t felt in years.

“We have never been here, mister.” Peter said. “My dad says we don’t have money to visit New York City.”

Mary hopped, pointing to a golden clock, but Joe didn’t follow her finger. His eyes remained forward, in a direction without time. Time didn’t exist or belong where he headed.

“It was a rhetorical question.” When the kids looked at him with quizzical looks, he shook his unshaved face. “Never mind. Now move!“ He snapped, and it freaked them both out. He added in a softer tone, “You know, we have to catch Santa before he leaves?”

That seemed enough to propel them toward the revolving glass doors of the exit without further distraction. Into the arms of the lovely 42nd Street, and the embrace of frigid air. The unceasing taxi horns overpowered other sounds.

“TAXI!” Joe waved his arms around, briefcase in one hand and plastic bag filled with glass Coke bottles. Finding a taxi during rush-hour proved a challenge. The kids stood in front of him, laughing at him waving like a madman. The first few passed before one finally pulled up. “17th precinct police station, please.”

“I thought we were going to see Santa?” asked Peter, frowning.

Joe contemplated something for a moment. East or West? He turned to the cabdriver. “Alright, Rockefeller Center, please. We’ll walk from there.” That appeased the young lad.

His goal was east, but he was forced to go west. For the kids.

The three packed into the backseat, where he allowed them their Cokes. “Now make sure to not spill.”

* * *

Rockefeller wasn’t far from Grand Central. A 15-minute-walk became ten in a taxi. If not for the kids, he could cover the distance in ten minutes on foot. Rockefeller wasn’t part of his original plan, but the police station wasn’t far from there. Joe double-checked the address with the cabdriver, who had an instant answer. These cabbies traced the streets as if reading Braille.

Mary pointed out the Christmas lights around the world-famous 42nd Street. Peter sat straight, taking in the big city views with brown eyes wide open. Every few seconds, one would yelp something they noticed.

“Never been to New York, huh?” asked Joe to nobody in particular.

“No, sir. We got nothing like this on Coney Island,” replied Peter. He gulped half of his Coke before returning his attention to the window.

Bright lights had come alive, showcasing the holiday vibe. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” blared from the outdoor speakers of a department store they passed. Street vendors stood selling jewelry, electronics, and other random merchandise, often bootleg. Street performers moved through thick crowds, entertaining. Musicians played guitars and violins, and movie theaters went full-house. Lawrence of Arabia, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Longest Day were running. Joe had watched Lawrence of Arabia three times on glorious 70mm picture reels, blowing his mind.

“What gave you kids the idea of traveling alone in a train all the way from New Jersey? Takes guts.”

Peter spoke without looking, as if he had rehearsed the answer. “Sir, I’m a Cub Scout. Wolf rank,” said Peter, his jaw tightened and back straightened again. He pointed to his chest. “I’m guiding my sister, so I can become an Eagle Scout.”

“Look, look, look! A clown juggling!” shrieked Mary in glee, her face glued against the window.

“Where? Where?” asked Peter.

“You missed him, silly!”

They passed Radio City Music Hall, which had a long line outside. Joe shook his head, wondering what the fun was in standing outside in sub-zero temperatures. Perhaps in his youth, but not now. “We’re almost there. Rockefeller will be on the left. Your side, kids.”

Within two minutes, the Rockefeller Plaza came into view. The light rose in lumens, and the noise increased in octaves. 

“IT’S HERE! THE TREE AND SANTA!” Mary stood in the taxi, her excitement at its peak.

“Mary, please sit until the car stops.” Joe reached out to calm her. “We are going there for a bit.”

Peter kept looking from his seat, his head turning from side to side. “But where is he? Santa and his reindeers.”

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Since the distance was short, the meter tallied just over a dollar. Joe dug out a few dimes for the tip. After thanking the driver, the three exited onto the sidewalk. From the open plaza, the crisp, icy winter air, like fragments of ice, tore through them.

The 70-foot tall Christmas tree towered over the plaza. All attention focused on the grand tree. On the far side of the tree, a piano played the lovely tune of “Still, Still Night”, and carolers sang, their soothing, angelic voices echoing across the square. Their charming voices flowed in the cold, as if the air sparkled with sentimentality and a hint of melancholy.

Joe stood and watched the kids hop in excitement. Mary pointed to different objects and ice skaters circling in front of the tree. Holiday music, festive lights everywhere, and the scent of roasted chestnuts and hot chocolate from vendors brought the atmosphere to life. It felt like Christmas was upon them, something Joe hadn’t cared about in a decade.

Mary sprinted to him and grabbed his hand to pull him.

“Sir, thank-you!” Peter spoke, posture upright, solemn, as if conversing with a general. 

Joe burst into a belly laugh, one he hadn’t had in ages. The moment felt heavy, yet fitting. He thought back to his childhood, his friends, the parents he loved, the teachers—everything came flashing back. It felt as if he had lived a thousand lives within a fleeting second. He took a step back, and tears burst forth.

He had been traveling to the freezing, dark river in the east, then the kids stopped him. Their magic and radiance dragged him back to the light, pulled by their tiny hands. Back toward the waiting arms of hope, love, and joy and inspiration and life. All that tasted pleasant in the world.

“Mista, are ya okay?” asked Mary. Peter came in closer, worry plain on his face.

Joe didn’t respond and nodded, pulling out his handkerchief. After wiping his face, he looked around. The spell had passed, and he felt serene. Calmer than he’d been in a long time. Many holiday seasons had passed, but that wasn’t important. What counted was spending it with those who could instill optimism and lift spirits. His charisma had once drawn people to him, pulled by his charm like an invisible force. The weight of daily life coupled with decades of bottling everything up had crossed a line he couldn’t ignore.

“I’m okay. Just thinking about things. I should be thanking you kids.”

Mary and Peter exchanged looks, confused. An invisible signal passed between them. Though nonsensical, it calmed them. The excitement spell concluded, as did the feral wish to meet Santa.

“Now we go to the police station to get you kids home to your parents. It’s not right to keep them waiting on the holidays.”

Peter turned away and strode silently to the railing.

Mary shook his hand to nudge him into paying attention to her. “We don’t have a home or parents, mista.”

Shocked, Joe looked down as her tears rolled. He kneeled in front of her and wiped her cheeks and eyes. “What’s going on here?”

“We… well, we kinda wandered off, sir,” said Peter. “We ran from the orphan home. They were mean to us. Mary ain’t my proper sister, not really. My aunt and uncle used to live around here, I think. I remember the huge Christmas tree from memories a long time ago. Before I- my mommy put me in orphan home. I didn’t know my father, sir. Santa’s supposed to help folks, so we thought we’d ask him for help.”

Joe stood, his hand on the jaw. “Do you remember your aunt and uncle’s full names?”

Peter shook his head.

“Why did you bring Mary? Did you think about that and the trouble you two are in?”

“But, mista, what ‘bout Santa?” asked Mary, her voice barely audible over the public commotion. “He will help, right? We wrote letters for him.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes focused on the ice skaters beneath the tree. Flashing lights, and the piano continued to play. The carolers had finished singing.

“Sometimes in life, help comes in unexpected ways,” said Joe. He straightened out Mary’s hat gently and beckoned Peter close. “I will get your letters to Santa. You know, he’s a very busy man this time of year, helping folks all over. But he is more than just a man. He’s a feeling of warmth and joy and I guess hope. You came looking for that, and you found it. It’s right here.” He touched his chest. The two watched him close, taking in every word. “Come on now, kids. Lets go find somewhere warm. The police will help us now.”

As the trio walked west together, the streets ahead grew brighter. The evening began with Joe heading east toward the river. Now, he boldly led them west toward the 41st Precinct and never glanced back.

“Will it be warm where we’re going?” asked Mary. She looked to him for guidance while hopscotching.

“Yes, my dear.”