The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(50)

Sometimes you make plans. Sometimes plans make themselves.

Especially in New York City.

“Shall we?” I said, offering my hand. I was doing this to be romantic, and also because I was worried that my visual impairment was going to make it hard for me to march in a growing crowd.

“Let’s,” she replied, taking my hand to be romantic, and also because she was worried that my visual impairment was going to make it hard for me to march in a growing crowd.

Hand in hand, we headed down Second Avenue. It soon became very clear from the conversations of the people around us that nobody knew who the bagpipers were or where they were going. There were plenty of theories, though.

“I think it’s the fire department’s bagpipe corps,” one older gentleman said.

“I’m not sure the NYFD plays Joni Mitchell,” his companion replied. “She’s Canadian, you know.”

Meanwhile, the hipsters directly in front of us were in a bit of a lather.

“Do you think it’s Where’s Fluffy?” a skinny guy in a cardigan asked.

“It’s not like Where’s Fluffy to play in the daylight,” a disheveled guy in a peacoat replied.

“Which is why it would be so Where’s Fluffy! To fool us by playing in the daylight!” the skinny guy rebutted.

I wasn’t sure what any of this meant. What I was sure of was that the bagpipes had begun to play “Fairytale of New York”—which is basically the best Christmas song ever written.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Lily asked.

I knew it wasn’t meant as an existential question. But that’s how my mind chose to hear it. Maybe because I was still trying to loosen myself from my father and the mood of foreboding that he put me in. Maybe because I was still wondering if Lily and I had found safe ground again. Or maybe just because we were blindly following eleven bagpipers, and while not a single one of them appeared to be pied, I was sure caution needed to be exercised whenever random pipers were concerned.

More and more people joined us as we crossed through midtown. For one scary moment, I thought we were going to head to Times Square, which would have been a literal tourist trap at this point in the season. But instead we skirted around it, an accumulation of curiosities following a single tune.

By the time we got to Tompkins Square Park, there had to be at least two hundred of us. There was a pause in the music as the bagpipers assembled in the park’s central circle. The hipsters peered around, looking for another band to show up. But the bagpipers were the only show around—and now they were ready for another song.

Even though it wasn’t even noon, they started to play the opening strains of “Silent Night.” Even though it wasn’t night, we all fell silent, something in the sounds reaching far within us. Such a peaceful song, and so sad. Even though there weren’t any words, we were all filling in the words in our heads.

All is calm, all is bright.

I didn’t really believe in Christmas carols, but I could believe in them a little more if, like this, they pushed us a little closer to wonder, a little closer to gratitude. Even the hard years have some reason for celebration, and I was feeling it now, and hoping that Lily was feeling it too.

The next song wasn’t a Christmas song—it was Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.” Some people in the audience started to sing along. I could tell Lily had no idea what song it was, so I started to serenade her with my own off-key rendition, telling her we were born before the wind, also younger than the sun. Telling her that when that foghorn blows, I’d be coming home. Telling her I wanted to rock her gypsy soul.

She smiled at that, showing me some of that gypsy soul shining through.

By the last verse, she was singing along. Then even more so when they transitioned into a rousing rendition of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” We were all singing along now, joined by more and more people who were coming to the park and finding this strange, piper-drawn chorus. This spoke more to me than any 70-percent-off sale, more than any Hollywood construction, more than any check my father could write or any commercial that could be put on TV.

I put my arm around Lily’s shoulder and she put her arm around my waist, and we stayed like that—two bodies, one entity—for the rest of the song. Then we moved our arms so we could applaud with the rest of the crowd. The eleven bagpipers bowed once to us, then once to each other, then disappeared into the day.

“I’m so glad we,” Lily said.

“Yeah, I’m so glad we as well.”

“I think it’s time for a Salty Pimp, don’t you?” Lily suggested.

I nodded enthusiastically, and we headed over to Big Gay Ice Cream for a Salty Pimp (vanilla ice cream, dulce de leche, sea salt, chocolate dip) and an American Globs (vanilla ice cream, pretzels, sea salt, chocolate dip). Then we headed over to Mercer Street to get some coffee at Think, where we were helped by a stupendous pink-haired barista who didn’t flinch when I ordered an iced vanilla soy latte at the end of December. There was just enough time to stop off on Eighth Street to get Langston and Benny a Beyoncé-shaped lamp as a Christmas/housewarming gift.

(“Why a lamp?” I asked Lily.

“New Jersey doesn’t get as much light,” she replied, still a little bitter, but not so bitter that she opted for a Mariah Carey lamp instead.)