The streets of New York were frozen white on this harsh December morning: Christmas was coming, and the city was dotted with wreaths. The factories hummed as the steam trains rolled out of the stations in the early morning. The businessmen were out too, heading for Wall Street in their carriages. These were men of finance and industry, rich men in three-piecesuits wearing Jaxon and James hats. They’d want to buy papers. Ignazio headed for his usual spot in front of the Stock Exchange, where he sold copies of the Wall Street Journal. His mother had wrapped him up warm this morning, but his trousers had holes in them. They were a hand-me-down from his brother, who was too big for them now. They’d belonged to their eldest brother before that, but he had died of tuberculosis. There were still two children to feed; Papa was a railway worker and struggled to make enough money to go round. Times were hard for Italians on the Lower East Side. Ignazio dreamed of driving a train; one of the ones that went far away, slicing down the coast from North to South. He’d be a conductor, not just shovelling coal into the engines like his father. Papa coughed up black spit into his ‘kerchief, and Mama couldn’t get the stains out of them. Papa drank a lot too, sometimes most of his pay. Mama cried, and Papa consoled her. These were the thoughts revolving in Ignazio’s mind as he arrived at Wall Street.
The businessmen were descending one by one from their carriages, their loafers sinking into the snow. The richest among them arrived in their Ford cars. The game was afoot. Ignazio began accosting them with the lines he’d been told to repeat: “Standard Oil up! J.P. Morgan down!” He needed to sell twenty copies to earn ten cents, and forty for a quarter. But he never managed to sell more than a dozen. Competition was fierce; there were three paperboys in front of the Stock Exchange this morning. The two other boys were Irish, and the old men thought their accents were funny. They sold a lot more papers than Ignazio. But then, they were older — maybe 12 or 13 — and their voices carried better. Maybe today would be his lucky day. It was almost Christmas, after all, and he was hoping for some pity. The men who bought his papers did not look at him kindly, but if they had children — if they had a heart — Ignazio might hope to go home with some of the loose change that rattled in their pockets.
The Stock Exchange had been closed for an hour. The last of the men were leaving the building on Wall Street. Ignazio’s voice was hoarse. But he wasn’t cold anymore, or at least, he didn’t notice if he was. He thought of the lovely red and black locomotive that would spew smoke into the cloudless southern sky. The railway snaked through the desert, past herds of longhorn cattle, wild horses, cowboys and Indians. Just like in Mama’s stories with their cactuses, rattlesnakes, coyotes and scorpions. The sun was a bright yellow flame in Ignazio’s daydreams; they kept him warm. All of a sudden, a man came up to him with a smile on his face. It was a man he knew; he watched him get out of his car every day. His driver was very subservient; he must be someone important. “Standard Oil is up, sir!” Ignazio offered hopefully. The man agreed. His investments were doing well, and he hadn’t come all the way from Baltimore for nothing. The man was in a good mood and said playfully: “Tomorrow’s Christmas Day; you’ll have to light a candle at church or you won’t get anything from Santa Claus and baby Jesus!” Ignazio smiled innocently. The financier held out a five-dollar bill. “That’s a lot of money, sir!” Ignazio sputtered. The man walked off without taking the newspaper Ignazio was holding out to him.
Ignazio’s day was over; it was time for him to head home. He knew that his mother would have made tomato soup, and that his brother would be playing with his lead soldiers on the step. He knew their home would be cold, and that the coal fire would have died down by the time his Papa came home. But today was different for Ignazio; he had five dollars in his pocket — a small fortune. What would he do with the money? He headed over to the church on the Lower East Side, where he could think. He would light a candle for the Blessed Virgin and hope that she would tell him to buy a train at FAO Schwarz. A metal locomotive painted bright red that would steam through the desert with the cactuses and the snakes. A little piece of heaven he could roll around beside the fire after supper. After all, tomorrow was Christmas Day.
Alan Alfredo Geday