NEW YORK: Manna from Brooklyn

As a child in Brooklyn, Joseph Bonavita dreaded Christmas. His father was dead; often he and his mother had nothing on their table but a candle and a plate of spaghetti. Joe swore he would conquer poverty. He became a professional boxer, and finally, fourteen years ago, bought a bar & grill on Brooklyn’s bleak Third Avenue. This year black-haired, bash-nosed Joe Bonavita was 39, married, prosperous in a small way and eating well.

His automobile needed repairing, but when he closed up, early Christmas morning, he decided it would have to wait. He took $1,500 in small bills, headed for the grim and grimy sidewalks of the Bowery. He walked up to a knot of whiskery derelicts standing in the shelter of a doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said, holding out some money. “Have some dough.”

But the Bowery knew better than that. There was a long, sullen silence. Then someone said: “Scram, jerk!”

Joe went on to the next corner, and was jeered there too. He walked into a desolate Doyers Street mission, waving dollar bills. Men stared at him dubiously, then shuffled away. “It’s on the level,” Joe pleaded. He gathered up half a dozen reluctant men, herded them to the Elizabeth Street police station, explained to a lieutenant.

“Take the money,” the cop advised after due deliberation. “He means well.”

The lieutenant assigned a detective to go the rounds and testify to the legitimacy of Joe’s unbelievable errand. After that, hour after hour, Joe gave away money. “Who wants whiskey?” he called. “Who wants dinner?” He took a hundred men into a tavern, bought them drinks and meals. He led another ragged brigade past Bowery beef-stew joints to a restaurant that served turkey, and then ordered dinners for all. Then, with money gone and hoarse toasts ringing in his ears, he went outside. He sat down on the curb and wept, out of pity and joy and for a boy he remembered, named Joseph Bonavita.