Isn't It True...

Recently, Amazon Prime Video added to its eclectic streaming selection the first five seasons—of a total of nine—of Perry Mason starring the incomparable Raymond Burr. What’s remarkable to me is how well the series holds up. After all, the show debuted in 1957, sixty-two years ago, with thirty-nine episodes airing in the first season. That’s a fair share of hour-long programs to write, film, and edit in one year. The network television shows of today churn out a mere twenty to twenty-six episodes per year.

There’s a film noir quality to Perry Mason that somehow stands the test of time—menace, mystery, and avarice unfolding in stark black-and-white. The show’s formulaic in many instances, but so what? It supplies a unique portal into 1950s America and Los Angeles in particular, which appeared considerably less congested and frenzied back then, even with the assembly line of dead bodies that were integral to the stories. There, too, were shapely blondes and brunettes galore—some guilty as sin and others as pure as the driven snow. Mason, of course, represented the comely innocents.

It’s a welcome change of pace to watch a gritty black-and-white series from yesteryear with no car chases, shootouts, or fist fights. Perry Mason struts his stuff in the courtroom, not the barroom. Gumshoe Paul Drake is a detective from the old school who records his shoe-leather findings in a small offline notepad.

There was an incredible amount of cigarette smoking in the various scenes—everywhere and anywhere the characters roamed. From a contemporary catbird seat, it’s quite eye-opening to see people lighting up in hospital corridors, elevators, and crowded restaurants. A rather gross and very unhealthy spectacle, I’d say. But that was then—before the Surgeon General’s report—and this is now. So, as I carry on among the longest days of the year 2019, I’m thinking of Perry Mason, the world he knew, and the vastly different one I know.  

The longest days can only mean one thing—summertime. And so begins the countdown to Christmas and the shortest days.

This is the Van Cortlandt Park Stadium grandstand with its smokestacks on each end. It was a "New Deal" Works Progress Administration (WPA) project and opened in 1939. By the way, three of the Perry Mason regulars—Ray Collins, William Talman, and William Hopper—died in real life of smoking-related illnesses. Talman, who played ill-fated District Attorney Hamilton Burger—vanquished by Mason time and again—recorded a then unprecedented anti-smoking ad as he was dying of lung cancer in 1968.

Let there be light. I went to high school for four years in an overly crowded "special bus," which was anything but special. The school paid New York City for the privilege of shuttling us to and fro in city buses with city bus drivers. It was against the law—by the late 1970s—to smoke on mass transit, but many of my peers did anyway. The drivers rarely, if ever, did anything about it.

Packed like the proverbial sardines in a can on our daily rides, you can well imagine what we smelled like upon exiting the buses. What a way to start and end each school day—clothes, skin, and hair reeking of second-hand cigarette smoke. Take a deep breath now.

Not quite Niagra Falls, this is the Van Cortlandt Lake waterfall, which guides its ever-flowing waters into the city's serpentine sewer system. It was active long before Perry Mason first aired and shows no signs of running on empty. 

There's definitely more stuff to throwaway in the here and now. The modern-day Perry Mason and Della Street would probably be having Starbucks, Shake Shack, and Eggslut—with lots of plastic cups, containers, and utensils—delivered to the office.

But at least there wouldn't be all that smoke wafting through the office! It seems very strange to me now, but it wasn't too long ago in the scheme of things that smoking was permitted in New York City eateries. I remember my favorite diner—as late as the mid-1990s—catering to a cast of smokers, including Seymour, a private taxi driver, who, if memory serves, died of lung cancer.

A squirrel's existence has remained largely unchanged.

Fewer wide-open spaces in which to roam but more discarded foodstuffs in which to forage.

While Perry Mason frequently did pro bono work for those in trouble and lacking financial resources, rarely were his clients completely down-and-out.

This sign—posted it would seem during the Perry Mason run—is at the Van Cortlandt Park subway terminal. It's for employees in need of emergency eye wash. If you can read the sign, you probably don't need it.

"Love is all around" New York City at the moment... 

"No need to fake it."

"You can have the town, why don't you take it."

During Perry Mason's nine-year run, there were no signs like this advertising the show in New York City's subway system.

In Perry Mason parlance, let's call it "The Case of the Snoozing Subway Rider." Came upon a news story this morning of a sleeping man—sprawled out in a subway car—who was robbed. Caught on camera, naturally, the thief is seen cutting out a pocket of the dog-tired victim's pants and making off with his cell phone and credit cards.

Speaking of dog-tired... 

One last subway tale from a couple of days ago: "The Case of the Splenetic Straphanger." An angry man attacked a transit employee in the wee small hours of the morning. Seems the guy completely lost it when he discovered that the Number 1 train was not running due to track work. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)