Gus O'Neil's Christmas Adventure
A short (and ridiculous) story set in New York City on Christmas Eve, 1989.
Introduction
My dad, the longtime newspaper man, befriended some unforgettable characters during his New York City years. My favorite among the motley crew was always Gus O’Neil, the radio producer. The following story belongs to Gus. I’m hopeful he would be okay with me re-sharing it here, even if I’ve gotten a few details wrong. Gus’ tales were always a bit tall, anyhow. For ease of reading, I’ve divided the story into short chapters.
Gus O’Neil’s Christmas Adventure
Part 1: The Power Outage, The Port, and The Pond
It was Christmas Eve 1989, and someone’s Shih Tzu must have chewed through a power cable somewhere, because my whole apartment building had lost power. Thank God, the heat was still working. So, I there I am in my dark kitchen, drinking port by the radiator.
It was about 8:00 PM. Now, Carmine’s near the Park stayed open until 10:00 PM on Christmas Eve, and I thought I’d go and order some meatballs at the bar. Since my lady and I had split the week before, and my brother’s family was out of town, I was alone. And a little lonely.
Then, a bright idea! En route to Carmine’s, I’d loop through Central Park, and bring the bottle of port. There are always people there; surely I’d find a young couple or someone to have a drink with me en plein air. The idea sounded better and better. Five minutes later, I leave the building with the port and a stack of paper coffee cups in a tote bag. The tote was my ex-girlfriend’s – I’m not a tote bag guy.
On my way over, I notice a yellow Daily Herald truck parked one block off the park. Now that was an odd sight, since the Herald delivery guys had walked off the job that week. The strike was huge news; your dad will remember all about it, even though he wasn’t at the Herald yet.
Seeing the truck made me think of Frank Hurley, who delivered papers to all the coffee shops and newsstands on my side of town. Frank was a great guy; we’d gone to many a Yankee game together. He was getting ready to retire, and I remember hoping the strike wouldn’t stress him too much. Because Frank has heart problems, you know.
Oh I forgot – it was freezing that night! So, the streets were empty. A shame, since the sky was clear enough to see stars – a Christmas miracle for Manhattan. But no one out to see it. And as I enter the park, I start feeling less sure I’m gonna encounter anyone.
Ten minutes later I’m passing by the pond, ready to give up and hurry to Carmine’s. The pond is frozen over, and just as I think, “Man, people should come out and ice skate,” I notice someone actually standing out on the ice near the far bank, Another wanderer, at last!
“Hey!” I shout. The guy hears me, turns around, stumbles backwards, and falls flat on his ass. Whoops. Then the ice makes this horrible KRR-ACK! which I can hear from 100 yards away.
And get this – the guy plunges through the ice.
Shit! I start sprinting, thinking – If this guy dies, it’s my fault. Adrenaline kicks in, and I get around the pond in no time. The guy’s close to shore, only ten feet or so out. And thank God, he hasn’t fallen all the way in. The back of his head is above water. The pond is shallow here; basically, he’s fallen in water no deeper than a large bathtub.
I rush over, thrust my hands under his armpits, and pull him up onto the ice and drag him backwards to the shore. His body is shaking, which isn’t good. And his face is pale and blue-ish. But he’s breathing. Just as I go to try to shake him awake, I get a clear look at him – it’s Frank Hurley, my Herald buddy!
“Frank!” I shout. But he’s not responding.
Then, thank God, I hear horses. It’s one of those touristy horse-and-carriage rides, taking some out-of-towner couple on a starlit Christmas Eve ride. Well, I rush onto the path like the maniac from the black lagoon, and I throw my hands up high.
“STOP! Medical emergency! I need this carriage!”
Part 2: The Hospital & The All-Star
One hour later, I’m outside the ER at St. Boniface Hospital, pouring a cup from the coffee vending machine. The supervising RN had just updated me on Frank:
“Your friend is gonna be fine. He was in shock. But he’s stable now, sleeping. No hypothermia, and his heart looks fine. His blood alcohol is also coming down – we’re giving him plenty of fluids. It’s so lucky that you got to him in time.”
Frank had been unconscious in the carriage and the cab ride over to the hospital. So, I never got to ask him what the hell made him walk out on the ice. Maybe it’d seemed like a good idea after a few sherries. Or maybe he just wanted to look at the stars. Who the hell knows.
The nurse and I chat some more, until she gets paged. Then, just as I think the night’s excitement has concluded, someone taps my shoulder.
“Hey, are you the guy that pulled his buddy from the lake?” says a man’s voice.
I’m thinking it’s gonna be a cop. Instead, I turn and see this lanky, 6’2” guy – clean shaven, close-cut hair, broad shoulders, wide stance, wearing an Oxford shirt and a dark blazer over pale jeans. His face looks familiar, but the Santa hat on his head is throwing me off.
Just as I’m about to ask where I know him from, he says it:
“Sorry – I’m Mitchell Palmer,” he says. “Are you Gus? I overheard the nurses talking about you.”
Holy shit! Mitchell “Mitts” Palmer, Gold Glove winning third basemen for ’89 Mets. That team had been a heartbeat away from making the Series that year. And “Mitts” was a stud down the home stretch – fantastic hitter who could really flash the leather at third.
“Mitts Palmer!” I say. “Of all the gin joints… Geez – what are you doing here?”
“Here to see my uncle who’s recovering from surgery. When I passed by your friend, I heard the nurses say what happened. You saved his life!”
“Well, I dunno about that…” I say. “Frank only fell in a couple of feet of water.”
“Hey,” says Palmer. “In my book, pulling your friend from the drink counts as a Christmas miracle. And I just wanted to shake the hand of a real-life guardian angel.”
For the first time that night, my brain slows down enough to realize what might have happened if Frank fell through when no one was around. It sends shivers up my spine.
“He’s gonna be okay now, that’s all that matters,” I say.
“Listen,” says Palmer. “I’m meeting a friend for a nightcap down the block. The Emerald Room – you ever been? Maybe you’d let us buy you a drink?”
Part 3: The Emerald Room
BAM! One moment, Christmas Eve is looking like stale bagel sandwich at the 24-hour corner deli – the next, I’m in an elevator with Gold Glove winner “Mitts” Palmer, who wants to buy me a drink at some classy spot. Talk about “Only in New York!” I’m getting chills, thinking, “The guys at the station are never gonna believe me.”
We exit the hospital into the cold 5th Avenue night, and Palmer immediately starts hyping The Emerald Room. The concept started as a private tasting room in Galway, and now the New York location is having a soft open, by invitation only. The whiskeys are specially sourced from small distilleries along the Wild Atlantic Way, and Palmer knows the founder… and on and on and on.
We reach the door, on which “The Emerald Room” is painted in dark letters upon the frosted glass. Then Palmer swings it open and walks through a curtain of plastic green beads. He grabs my upper shoulder, pulls me after him, and we both break out laughing.
Palmer had been kidding! The Emerald Room isn’t an exclusive cocktail bar at all; it’s this hopeless little dive plastered with neon shamrocks and way too many posters of the Guinness toucan.
The floors are drab wood planks doused in sawdust. Just inside – a plastic skeleton wearing a Hawaiian shirt and knock-off Ray Bans. To the left – an inflatable, five-foot leprechaun draped in Christmas lights. Behind the bar – a brass bust of JFK wearing a Santa hat.
The place is completely devoid of human life, besides the white-haired guy behind the bar – who upon seeing us, instantly pours two shots of Jameson.
“Hey Mitts! One for your friend?” the guy says.
Palmer walks me over to the bar and introduces me to Scotty, the barkeep.
“Scotty, this is Gus O’Neil. He’s in radio. He saved his friend’s life tonight in Central Park. His drinks are on the house, okay?” say Palmer.
Scotty shakes my hand, pours a third shot, and we all down it. Then Scotty goes to the busted jukebox and kicks the damn thing until it starts wheezing out some creaky Jimmy Buffet.
“You got me good,” I say to Palmer. “For a second I thought we were going to some high-falutin joint like The Oak Room.”
Palmer laughs, reaching for the whiskey bottle and pouring us two more drinks.
“Promised myself if I ever made it pro, I’d buy a dive bar in Manhattan and re-name it something classy sounding – but keep the dive element. We signed the lease last month, and I ordered the pinball machines last week.”
“I love it. Long live The Emerald Room,” I say.
Part 4: The Return Journey
Before you know it, it’s 11:00 PM. Time for The Emerald Room to close. Scotty gives us each a bottle of port as a Christmas gift, and then Mitts Palmer and I walk out into the night.
“Gus. I’m going to another party across town. You interested?” he say.
No, I tell him, I’ve got to eat something now (having never made it to Carmine’s) – and I’m just going to walk home through the park. Then Palmer says he’ll walk with me, since his party is over past my neighborhood anyway. So off we go through the still-empty park.
A few minutes later, I realize we’re right near where my evening began, rescuing Frank Hurley! When I ask if Palmer wants to see the hole in the ice, he says yes. So we walk to the pond and sure enough, there’s the hole. Even more amazingly, there on the shore is my tote bag, with my original port bottle still inside!
We don’t need another drink at that point in the night – but the crisp air and the stars had sobered us up some, and so Palmer joins me in a slug of port and a toast to Frank’s health.
Then, I get the insane notion to step out onto the ice myself, to re-enact the drama for Palmer. The ice feels solid under my feet, as I step out and start rehashing the story.
You probably know where this is headed, so I’ll cut to the chase.
As I re-tell the story, my ego kicks in – Yeah! I’m the guy that saved a life. Mister Miracle. Maybe I should go to that party and tell this story some more!
And just as I’m about to walk back to shore and tell that to palmer, the fuckin’ ice goes KRR-ACK! under me and I fall through! The last three things I remember are the shock of water rushing up my pant legs, the crack of my skull thwacking against the ice, and the beauty of the stars twinkling above as I lost consciousness.
Conclusion: Christmas Morning
Six hours later, I wake up to the sound of church bells outside my window. It’s Christmas morning, I’m dying of thirst, my clothes have been substituted for a hospital gown, and I’ve got an eggplant-sized lump on the back of my head. The same RN I talked to last night enters my room.
“You’re going to be just fine,” she says. “Your friend pulled you to shore immediately, so the biggest concern is that bump and the concussion. We’d like to monitor you here through the evening at least. And your friend Frank has fully recovered upstairs.”
So that’s it – after being Mister Hero, I am now the humble, hungover schmuck in the hospital on Christmas morning. Saved my friend, and then did the exact damn same thing to myself. Well, I’ll always have The Emerald Room, I think.
Just then the nurse turns and hands me a small paper bag.
“Almost forgot – your friend left this for you,” she says.
Inside the bag is one of those small plastic cups they take urine samples in. I’m confused until I turn the cup around and see the label on the other side, on which Mitts Palmer has written in dark marker:
“Hey Gus! HERO. Next XMAS, stay off the damn pond!” – Your friend, Mitts.
Santa Claus himself never delivered a better Christmas present.
END
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