I’d like to share a personal Christmas tradition that dates back over 20 years. I was in high school. One of my teachers, A.P. Bechner, a Manhattan native, would give an annual speech he called “Christmas at the Automat.”
Automats are now a thing of the past. The automated cafeteria first opened in Philadelphia in 1902 and the last closed in New York City in 1991. Items were displayed behind glass doors; drop some coins into a slot, open a door and remove a hot plate of food.
The Automat was a symbol of the march of technology – until technology marched on and the Automat was left behind. By the time I heard Brother Bechner’s speech, Automats were fading away. By then, the Automat was a symbol of encroaching obsolescence. From the point of view of Christmas, the Automat was a symbol of loneliness.
Every year, the week before Christmas, Brother Bechner would stand at the front of a classroom in Rochester, New York and describe an Automat to 35 teenagers who had never seen one. And then he would talk about Christmas Day – when the streets of Manhattan fall uncharacteristically silent and for one day there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
He would describe the solitary person in the small apartment – perhaps a radio playing Christmas carols, perhaps a television where the Yule log burned and burned without being consumed.
The lonely people biding their time – the visit to the Automat would be their one outing of the day, the timing must be right so the empty period before or after would not be unbearably long.
Finally, the slow walk in the brisk air, the hollow clank of coins in the box and Christmas dinner is served. Turkey and dressing, squash and cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and coffee. It’s hot, but it’s mechanical. It sits on a tray with silverware pulled from a common bin. The Automat is one-third full – there are gaps between the diners. Everyone eats alone in a solitary cell of silence. Canned music plays softly – Christmas carols again.
The lonely are the old and widowed, the unwed, students far from home and the homeless, pushing their few possessions beneath the table.
Every year, Brother Bechner asked us to take moment on Christmas Day and think of the people in the Automat. Perhaps he did that so we would dwell on our good fortune; perhaps he did it as an inoculation against coming years when some of us would be facing Christmas alone. There have been years when I needed that inoculation.
But I think he did it to make us recognize and embrace our common humanity, that regardless of how scattered or solitary we may be, we are all members of one family.
Every year on Christmas Day, I try to think of the people in the Automat – or in those places that have succeeded it. So Merry Christmas to everyone eating in a fast food restaurant, happy holidays to everyone stuck at airports or bus stations, either hemmed in by weather or because you have no place else to go.
Happy Hanukkah, a bit belated; Happy Kwanzaa, a bit early. Greetings in the holy month of Ramadan. Happy winter solstice to Buddhists, Wiccans and atheists everywhere. Happy holidays to everyone whose only human contact today is the sound of my voice, coming through the computer.
And to Brother Bechner, wherever you are – Merry Christmas.
Christmas at the Automat
I’d like to share a personal Christmas tradition that dates back over 20 years. I was in high school. One of my teachers, A.P. Bechner, a Manhattan native, would give an annual speech he called “Christmas at the Automat.”
Automats are now a thing of the past. The automated cafeteria first opened in Philadelphia in 1902 and the last closed in New York City in 1991. Items were displayed behind glass doors; drop some coins into a slot, open a door and remove a hot plate of food.
The Automat was a symbol of the march of technology – until technology marched on and the Automat was left behind. By the time I heard Brother Bechner’s speech, Automats were fading away. By then, the Automat was a symbol of encroaching obsolescence. From the point of view of Christmas, the Automat was a symbol of loneliness.
Every year, the week before Christmas, Brother Bechner would stand at the front of a classroom in Rochester, New York and describe an Automat to 35 teenagers who had never seen one. And then he would talk about Christmas Day – when the streets of Manhattan fall uncharacteristically silent and for one day there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
He would describe the solitary person in the small apartment – perhaps a radio playing Christmas carols, perhaps a television where the Yule log burned and burned without being consumed.
The lonely people biding their time – the visit to the Automat would be their one outing of the day, the timing must be right so the empty period before or after would not be unbearably long.
Finally, the slow walk in the brisk air, the hollow clank of coins in the box and Christmas dinner is served. Turkey and dressing, squash and cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and coffee. It’s hot, but it’s mechanical. It sits on a tray with silverware pulled from a common bin. The Automat is one-third full – there are gaps between the diners. Everyone eats alone in a solitary cell of silence. Canned music plays softly – Christmas carols again.
The lonely are the old and widowed, the unwed, students far from home and the homeless, pushing their few possessions beneath the table.
Every year, Brother Bechner asked us to take moment on Christmas Day and think of the people in the Automat. Perhaps he did that so we would dwell on our good fortune; perhaps he did it as an inoculation against coming years when some of us would be facing Christmas alone. There have been years when I needed that inoculation.
But I think he did it to make us recognize and embrace our common humanity, that regardless of how scattered or solitary we may be, we are all members of one family.
Every year on Christmas Day, I try to think of the people in the Automat – or in those places that have succeeded it. So Merry Christmas to everyone eating in a fast food restaurant, happy holidays to everyone stuck at airports or bus stations, either hemmed in by weather or because you have no place else to go.
Happy Hanukkah, a bit belated; Happy Kwanzaa, a bit early. Greetings in the holy month of Ramadan. Happy winter solstice to Buddhists, Wiccans and atheists everywhere. Happy holidays to everyone whose only human contact today is the sound of my voice, coming through the computer.
And to Brother Bechner, wherever you are – Merry Christmas.
(c) Mark Floegel, 1999