THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, December 25, 1995 TAG: 9512230060
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E8 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 91 lines
THE STARS WERE brightly shining.
They were scattered over a card table draped with a black cloth whose ragged hem flapped wildly in the wind sweeping up the sidewalk.
Metal stars, plated with chrome, all from the hand of the Star Man who worked his stage magic on pre-Christmas shoppers in Manhattan's Greenwich Village.
Standing on tiptoes, the Star Man picked out his targets from half a block away, then bounced from foot to foot in a little jig as they drew near.
He rushed to his marks, waving his arms, working his Irish charm.
``Ah, Mrs. Kostler,'' he said, ``Aarn't you the very breath of Christmas now? God bless you, dear. And look at that fine gray coat you're wearin'. How about a bedazzlin' Christmas star for that lapel?''
Star Man wore jeans and a faded, blue, denim shirt whose color matched his eyes. Atop the shirt was an over-long black topcoat whose left sleeve crooked as he offered her his arm.
The table was cleverly placed beside a pub window bordered with lights. At about 3 p.m., the pub's owner switched on the lights. Their electric red and green colors were reflected on the silver surfaces of the stars making them nearly irresistible. Such was the case with Mrs. Kostner, and many others.
She stood like a soldier with a gray scarf wrapped around her head as the Star Man pinned his creation on her lapel like a medal. When she'd paid for her purchase, he grabbed her arm, pulling her back.
He yanked a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket. Holding it, he made a great show of blowing on the star before rubbing it briskly with the cloth.
``There you go,'' he said, winking. ``And a Merry Christmas to you.''
He sold about a dozen of the stars at $10 each as I stood watching. Each customer got a different performance: brisk with businessmen, joking with students, patient and gentle with the elderly.
Between sales, we fell into conversation. I mentioned that I came from the South. He jumped back, eyebrows raised.
``Sho' nuff now?'' he said, drawling.``I swahyuh and hope to dah if Ida knowed it.'' He was tall, a handsome face with wind-pinked cheeks, and thick curls of brown hair spilling over his brow.
I laughed and told him he had an ear for dialect and great style. He explained that he was an actor, taking graduate courses at NYU.
Packing the stars into a scarred briefcase, Star Man invited me to his flat, a block away, for coffee. He swung the case grandly while leading the way.
We sat in the kitchen by a window overlooking the sidewalk, drinking coffee laced with cheap brandy. Gray walls, drop cords for lights, linoleum floors.
A long table whose legs rested on a spread of newspapers, had been covered with torn and worn Army blankets. On the tabletop were shears, sheets of metal, soldering iron, pins, a spray gun and cans of chrome paint used to make the stars.
``They're a rip-off from a fancy magazine ad,'' he told me. ``The ones in the magazine were created in sterling silver and sell for 500 bucks.''
When I glanced up from the magazine he handed me, snow was falling. Flakes twirled past the window, first in three and fours, then multiplying in number, until cloudlike swirls whitened every pane for a second until the wind whooshed them away.
``It all ties in,'' he said. ``I want to be a star, on Broadway if I can, in the movies maybe. Selling stars is good for my psyche. You get to be a star by selling yourself, knowing how to speak and gesture.''
He rubbed the dampness off the stars with his handkerchief - one by one - then twisted each in his fingers, up toward the overhead light, for inspection.
``Don't you get tired of making the same stars, over and over?'' I asked.
``No, not really,'' he replied. ``Each is different, maybe in a tiny microscopic way, a place where the shears slipped, a nick here and there. Something. And it's the same with actors. Take Hamlet. Think of how many actors have played that part. But each was a little different.''
I thanked him. We left his flat to go our separate ways. Before parting we shook hands. He did it very theatrically, the palm way back near his shoulder before thrusting his hand forward to grasp mine.
Looking back, I could see him through the snow, bouncing down the street, headed for the table with his case of stars. That was years ago.
I sometimes think of him at this time of year. Whenever I see a tree with a star on it. Or stars on Christmas cards and wrapped gifts. I guess he's a star himself, now. Wouldn't surprise me.
But I also think of the gulf between those expensive sterling silver stars in the magazine and the cheap ones gleaming on the Star Man's table. It seems to pretty much size up the human condition. Some of us were born to be big stars - sterling silver stars. And the rest of us, well, not so big, maybe the $10 variety. But, as the Star Man said, each of us is unique. And we can all shine in our own way.
In that spirit, here's wishing you the merriest Christmas ever - from one $10 star to another. by CNB