jumps up and down, smiling, as if to say he’s fine.
“It’s just a bad idea, OK. I just want to keep things simple. Now come on,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. “Sorry, boy, I really want to be home right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. How does a snuggle in your blankies and a nice, big bone sound? I’ll even turn on the TV for you. Animal Planet.”
He doesn't look back at me. He seems resigned. He just pulls me to the crosswalk that he knows takes us home. I swear he sighs, before he steps off the curb. We walk home together in silence.
*****
My arm is going numb from being held high in the air, trying to beckon a cab on Central Park West at shift-change time.
Three yellow taxis have already slowed down, clocked that I have a smiling, be-sweatered little dog on the end of my leash, before speeding off. My high-heeled wedge boots are pinching my feet, and I feel constricted in my good wool dress coat. I had to haul myself into the shower, blow my hair dry, and put makeup on my face to leave my apartment. I wouldn’t dare show up to one of Aunt Miranda’s events without making an effort. It won’t be to her standards, but at least she can’t say I didn’t try.
Believe me when I tell you, I decided that I wasn’t going tonight no fewer than 50 times but I always circled back to the hard truth: Aunt Miranda’s haranguing would be harder to endure than an hour at Rockefeller Center. Like I told Hudson, we’re going late, showing our faces, staying for half an hour… an hour max… and then home to my jammies and Netflix. With any luck, we’d be burrowed into the couch with the TV on by the time they actually flicked the switch to light the 100-foot Norway Spruce.
Just as I can no longer feel my fingers, a taxi swoops up to the curb, and shouts out the window, “Where you going?”
“Rockefeller Center, 50th Street between 5th and 6th.”
“I know where the Rockefeller Center is. I’m a New Yorker. I’ve lived her for 20 years since I moved from Delhi as a kid.”
“Sorry.”
“Your dog, is he a good dog?”
Hudson lets out a little whine, culminating in an affirmative yelp.
“Yes, very good.”
“I like good dogs. I do not like bad dogs.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Yes or no?” I can no longer feel my left foot.
“OK, get in. I take you.”
“Oh, thank you!” Hudson and I pile into the cab. I spy myself in the rearview mirror. My nose is pink with cold.
“They make the tree lights tonight. Very big crowds, very crowded.”
“I know,” I say, voice filled with dread. “I have to go. My aunt is producing it.”
“She’s a movie producer? Like Steven Spielberg? I look very handsome on camera. Very handsome indeed.”
“No, she’s in charge of the tree lighting. Production Manager, that’s the title. She’s in charge of the guests, everything that happens onsite, coordinating with the television crew, just… everything.”
He whistles a low whistle. “Your dog is VIP. Or shall I say VID? Understand? Very Important Dog? That’s funny, I think! Very funny!”
I laugh. “Yes, it is.”
“I do stand-up comedy. Here,” he turns around, and shoves a card through the little tray that tunnels through the plastic between the front and back seats. “Vijay Singh, this Monday night, Broadway Comedy Club. Next week, Caroline’s Comedy Club.”
Impressed, I tuck the card in my handbag. “From what I hear, getting into Caroline’s is a big deal.”
It just goes to show if you take the time to speak to your taxi driver, you never know who you’re going to meet. Once I even met an opera singer though this guy was my first comedian.
“It is a very big deal! I’m hilarious. Very funny. Trust me when I say this to you.”
“I believe you.”
The sparkle of multiple flashbulbs going off catches my eye from the little TV screen affixed to the back of the seat in front of me. It’s a New York One live report from the tree lighting. Hudson tries to stand and sniff the screen, but Vijay is driving like a maniac, so my little dog looks like he’s surfing. “Sit, Hudson.” I scootch over and put my arm around him. “Look, here’s Aunt Miranda’s event. See the tree?”
A tiny country singer with long blonde hair and a powerful voice begins belting out O Holy Night.
Suddenly, the cab slams to a stop and Hudson goes careening into the footwell.
I fish him out from the floorboards, and kiss his little head. As the singer is reaching the crescendo of the song, the camera cuts to a woman holding a sleeping baby, and singing along, sincere and misty-eyed. My heart does a little jig. The impact of the soulful song, and the beauty of the swaying crowd among all of the festive decorations, send a frisson of holiday excitement through my body. Now I’m glad I made the effort to get out of the house.
A Christmas feeling from when I was a little girl washes over me. I feel the safety and joy of when our cook, Bridget, baked up a storm, and my parents stayed around the house instead of going out all the time. That was before the car accident. Before I moved to the states to live with Aunt Miranda. Hudson stands up, putting all the weight of his pointy little feet onto my thigh.
On the television, other musicians, sports stars, and the mayor of New York join the singer on the stage in front of the soon-to-be brilliantly illuminated tree. The camera pans the audience. People are holding up their phones and tablets to snap photos. Suddenly, I’m glad I’m en route. I can’t believe I almost passed up this opportunity.
When the camera pans to the very edge of the stage, I see Aunt Miranda.
“Look, Hudson, there she is!” I wave frantically, as if I’ll really get her attention. “Hiya, Aunt Miranda! Hi!” Hudson barks.
“No barking in the taxi,” Vijay says. “Look, there is your Radio City Music Hall.”
“I’m a New Yorker, I know where Radio City Music Hall is.”
“Touché,” he says.
Hudson pants and smiles, eyes on the TV. Can he see Aunt Miranda, I wonder? She looks impeccable in a classic winter white wool coat with a large golden brooch, reminiscent of the bronze Titan Prometheus statue that graces the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center. I’m sure it was no accident. Aunt Miranda is the very essence of style. Standing next to her, typing into an iPad is a young man I’ve never seen before, with wavy light-brown hair falling over the edge of his roundish tortoise-shell, horn-rimmed glasses. He has a neat, close-trimmed beard. He’s smiling, I think. Is he? I can’t be sure, since the shot isn’t a close-up. Maybe it’s just the way his heavy eyebrow arches. He looks like he’s thinking of an amusing story or a joke.
It’s usually Cerie who assists Aunt Miranda, but I recall that she’s on maternity leave. If her right-hand assistant is gone,
