The Pigeon Has Landed

It's been a clammy week of high humidity and fast-changing weather. The sun is shining one minute and there's a drenching downpour the next. In a momentary peep at blue skies yesterday, I spied the Red Baron flying over the Bronx. Seconds later the skies turned ominously gray and both the Red Baron and sunlight were gone. 

And now for something completely different in these soupy times: I recently came upon the name Nadia Comăneci, a five-time Olympic gold medallist in gymnastics, in a virtual news headline. The article referred to some accomplishment of the Romanian gymnast in the 1976 Summer Olympics in Montreal. What I most remember from that snapshot in time was being on vacation in the cozy hamlet of Mattituck, Long Island and not watching the Olympics—even for a moment. There was, however, a man named Jimmy on the scene, who had to be indoors—and glued to the telly—on those warm summer nights in July to watch Comăneci strut her stuff. And so I’ll never forget her.

That summer, by the way, was America’s bicentennial—her two hundredth birthday if you are counting. Looking back now, I see a more serene place to call home where the majority of Americans put their country above their party—above their petty, partisan politics—and could just chill out for one brief shining moment at least. Of course there was no social media in those days—no forums to vent 24/7 and spew bile under the cloak of anonymity or, worse still, in the bright light of day. There were no cable channels offering never-ending parades of blithering talking heads with uncanny knacks of riling up the faithful night after night after night.

1976 was a presidential election year, too, with incumbent Republican Gerald Ford—benign, prone to physical mishaps, and the epitome of dullness—fighting off a fierce primary challenge from a charismatic true believer named Ronald Reagan, who was deemed too old by pundits to ever seek the presidency again. Ford’s opponent in the general election was Jimmy Carter, a pious peanut farmer with a toothy smile. It was a bitterly fought campaign with Carter narrowly defeating Ford.

Magnanimously, Jimmy Carter began his inaugural address on January 20, 1977 with this: “For myself and for our Nation, I want to thank my predecessor for all he has done to heal our land.” The unelected Ford had assumed the office after Richard Nixon’s resignation amidst the Watergate scandal. And it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Ford even designated Carter to deliver his eulogy when the grim reaper determined that the 38th President had fallen down his last flight of stairs and would never ever again bang his head while exiting an earthly helicopter.

While on the subject of that bicentennial year, I vividly recall election eve when Jimmy Carter was declared the winner. Watching a network broadcast—the only alternative in those days—the ecstatic Carter relations in Plains, Georgia were called upon to comment on their good fortune. Stewed to the mickey, brother Billy Carter made the greatest impression on the viewing audience as he proclaimed that the Carter warehouse would be on holiday the following day. A paid one, he added with a bleary-eyed snicker. My father, a staunch Republican, expressed dismay at Billy’s behavior and thought it a sad day for America. He believed that the incoming First Family would be an embarrassment and stain on American dignity. Suffice it to say, the bar has been lowered—removed entirely, I think—on that front today.

When Nadia Comăneci was mesmerizing Jimmy and that other Jimmy’s family was making news, it was a different world entirely. I turned fourteen in 1976 and began high school without a cell phone, Facebook page, or a single app. Somehow I survived and America did, too. I’m just happy I’m not fourteen now. The pigeon has landed.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

It Is the Heat...and the Humidity

Once upon a time I lived on the top floor of a three-family home in the Bronx. I was one of five kids in a family of seven. Yes, there were two parents on the scene and we all made do with one bathroom and no air-conditioning in the dog days of past New York City summers. I remember feeling somewhat cheated that I didn't have the option—like many of my friends with air-conditioners did—to cool off when the thermometer and relative humidity performed their suffocating duet. But that was then and this is now. I am today a party of one with an air-conditioner. And so I can observe the sights and sounds of my surroundings in the stifling summer of 2018 and retreat—when the days are done—to the colder, drier climes of the great indoors.

Meanwhile, on the outside, I recently encountered this peculiar subway graffiti. It was the word "TATTOO" spelled out in dings. This sighting prompted me to silently exclaim, "De train, Boss, de train!"

Good to know that if you are tired of McDonald's old stale beef there is now an alternative. This sign also reminded me of simpler times in American politics. In the 1980 Republican primaries, Ronald Reagan misspoke in quoting Founding Father John Adams. He meant to say, "Facts are stubborn things!" but instead said, "Facts are stupid things! Not to be outdone, Ted Kennedy, running against incumbent President Jimmy Carter in the Democratic primaries, addressed farm families in Iowa as "fam farmilies." Of course, nowadays facts are considered stupid things by an awful lot of people.

It's the "In New York We Don't Serve Teens and You Shouldn't Either" truck. Wonder what's inside? What delights they hide. By the way, I just quoted lyrics from the song Christmas Children in the movie musical Scrooge, 1970, starring Albert Finney.

If there's a tomato in distress, now you know who to call.

Maybe it's just me but I find this slogan of theirs on the unappetizing side.

In the Bizarro World, students make $10,000 or more a month and don't pay tuition...

This blue jay can confirm that it's been a nasty month of July.

If you don't know, that's Grandpa Stroehmann on the bread truck. I had a driving instructor who would regularly caution me—when the situations warranted it—to "Watch out for Grandpa!" He is still plying his trade as an eighty-year-old man.

You see that open window? That can mean only one thing: It's a hot car. At this time of year, subway conductors make announcements where they advise riders escaping hot cars to make it snappy.

I saw this downed wire this morning and thought about some of the programs I've watched this year on Netflix and Amazon Prime. Breaking Bad, Ozark, and The Wire came to mind. Drug dealers and drug dealing make for better entertainment on-screen than off. 

If the shop's interior appearing trashed and pretty much emptied—with a chain lock on the front door—wasn't enough to convince you this eatery is shut down for good, the words "Closed...Closed...Closed" spelled out in black magic marker should have done the trick.

Hot and humid Fourth of July...the camera never blinks.

Not too long after this photo was taken, a protester scaled Lady Liberty, which shut down the island for multiple hours and cost the city a pretty penny. The bill is in the mail, I hope.

There are things around us that we overlook and take for granted for far too long...

Go North, young men...

Richard Kimble looked at the world for the last time and saw only darkness. These kids saw me sitting in Van Cortlandt's Tail, also known to a few of us as the Bum Park North.

A subway car I was riding in was chock-full of Klarna ads. I had never heard of Klarna before. It's not an ice cream manufacturer after all.

"Be it ever so crumble, there's no place like home." Referring to the 4077th, Major Winchester once uttered those words on M*A*S*H.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Fat Lady Sang

I think I go through life now on the outside looking in—or the inside looking out—whatever? So, when she entered the train with the assistance of a cane this morning, I couldn’t help but notice her considerable heft. The fat lady sat directly across from me, which caused me to internally cringe—and not because she was overweight with no discernible chin, but because I knew now that I had to be on special guard. It was a subway ride game-changer for me. You know: I wouldn’t want to be perceived as staring at her in any way, shape, or form. And then there’s my hobby of taking pictures and videos in the land down under. I wouldn’t want the woman to think I was attempting to photograph her on the sly. I wouldn’t want her to think I was making sport of her.

Now, here’s the real kicker vis-à-vis my fellow passenger. As the train approached her stop—Lincoln Center—she began the not inconsiderable task of gathering up her things and rising from her seat. The latter wasn’t a walk in the park, I detected, as I stared mostly at nothing in particular. When she finally made it to her feet, she tapped me on my knee—my prosthetic one—with her cane. Startled, I wondered if the woman sensed something unusual in the echoes of that tap. She asked: “Are you all right? You look…” I look what? 

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Take a few deep breaths,” the concerned lady added as a parting salvo. “Breathe in and breathe out.” And off she went into the wild gray yonder. Yes, it was that kind of morning. As I watched her pulling her travel bag on wheels to an exit, I realized that despite her girth, she was quite comfortable in her ample skin. The woman—whose hair, by the way, was dyed a light shade of blue—had a New Age-y feel about her.

So, I accepted her advice and took a few deep breaths, which isn’t always a good thing in a cramped subway car in summertime. On the very same trip, I encountered a female panhandler whom I’ve seen on multiple occasions. She’s got a piercingly loud voice and never deviates from her script and its three key selling points: HIV positive, empty refrigerator, and infant daughter. Oh, and that she doesn’t get her check for a couple of weeks, which she also proclaimed a week ago. When I dropped two dollars into her large mayonnaise bottle-sized receptacle, she said, “Thank you, honey.” I prefer these sizable containers for money drops and salute her for utilizing the proper prop.

Another fellow on the train had nothing at all but his hand for the money exchange. His pitch, though, was especially poignant. “Do not be afraid of me” and “Do not judge me.” I wasn’t and didn’t. Lastly, there was this individual whom I’ve previously spied working the subway cars. She’s clearly mentally ill and takes the handout notion to a very literal level. The woman goes from person to person and sticks her hand out each time in their respective faces. Let’s just say that she doesn’t respect people’s spaces, which is bad for business. There are a lot of sorry souls on the streets and in the subways, too, which is why being on the outside looking in—or is it the inside looking out—has its benefits.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)