Running to the balcony of her Upper West Side co-op, Megyn Kelly threw open the doors and stretched out her soft, manicured hands to warm them in the sun; a lush view of the park; her bare feet warmed by terra-cotta tiles with underfloor heating; the doorman’s cab whistle. Oh, glorious. Glorious!
“What’s to-day?” she cried, calling downward to a homeless man rummaging through a trash barrel.
“Eh?” returned the man, with all his might of wonder.
“What’s to-day, my fine fellow?” said Megyn.
“To-day?” replied the man. “Why, Christmas Day.”
“It’s Christmas Day!” said Megyn to herself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. They’re free-market spirits. Hallo, you filthy beggar!”
“Look, I’m not breaking the law!’’ returned the man. “I don’t want trouble. I’ll just move along.”
“Do you know the Zabar’s, in the next street but one, at the corner?” Megyn inquired.
“They chase me away from their dumpsters all the time,’’ lamented the man.
“An industrious fellow!’’ said Megyn. “A remarkable man! Do you know whether they’ve sold the free-range Diestel Turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize Turkey; the big one?”
“What, the one that’s like 12 dollars a pound?’’ returned the man.
“What a delightful man!’’ said Megyn. “It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, you smelly hobo!’’
“It’s still in the window,” replied the man.
“Is it?” said Megyn. “Go and buy it.”
“What, are you high?” answered the homeless man. “It’s Christmas! They’re closed.”
She ran back inside, grabbed her Hermès purse and rushed back to the balcony clutching a black AMEX card.
“No, no,” said Megyn. “ALL service employees now work on major holidays! Go and buy it, and tell ’em to bring it here, Come back with the turkey, and I’ll give you an O’Reilly Factor coffee mug. Come back with it in less than five minutes, and I’ll give you a genuine Fox News slanket!’’
She flicked her ebony AMEX card down into the street; the homeless man fished it out of a filthy snowbank, realizing that her instructions might land him a warm bed at The Tombs. He smiled and waved. “Merry Christmas!”
“I’ll deliver it to a grubby poor family. Brown ones!” whispered Megyn, rubbing her hands, and splitting with a laugh. “They sha’n’t know who sends it. It’s twice the size of Sarah Palin! But, wherever shall I find some deserving poors?”
Closing the balcony doors, Megyn shouted “Consuela!” until the children’s nanny appeared, flushed and out of breath.
“Señora, please: as I’ve said, my name is ‘Maria.’”
“Drop whatever you’re doing and make a list of some poor people you know. You know, real layabouts. And hand me the phone; I need to get a producer and a news van together.”
Megyn was better than her word. She did it all, and infinitely more. Her own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for her.
*with apologies to Charles Dickens, but I like to think he hated hypocrisy and sanctimony as much as I do.
More Gaudy Patter 