The Awakening

I was on my way home and riding in the last car of a Number 1 train yesterday afternoon. As the train neared the Bronx, only a handful of riders remained. One man had been sound asleep in the rear of the car for quite some time. I couldn’t say when he got on the train. It could have been before me or after me. Anyway, this fellow—who was more or less well dressed and groomed—awoke from the Land of Nod at 191st Street. By then there were just three of us.

“What train is this?” the man barked. I told him. “How did I get on the Number 1 train?” he replied with palpable anger in his tone. The guy then wanted to know the next stop and the time, too. “Dyckman Street,” I said, which didn’t mean a thing to him. Once there, he partially stepped out onto the platform—keeping one foot inside the train—and dazedly gazed ahead, contemplating his next move and who to blame for his predicament. I just didn’t want it to be me.

Not surprisingly, the pissed-off passenger wondered how he could get the downtown train. When I informed him of his two options, he didn’t appear to appreciate either. Exit at one of the next six stops—on the now outdoors El—go down to the street, cross it, climb back up another flight of stairs, and pay for the privilege. Or take the train you’re on for seven stops to the Van Cortlandt Park terminal and effortlessly walk across the platform to the other side—just several feet—hooking up with the downtown train free of charge.

I was alone with this increasingly incensed man—on the other side of the universe as far as he was concerned—for three stops. Each time he stepped outside—impatiently peering down the platform with one foot always in the doorway. Angrier and angrier he became before storming off at 225th Street. The guy could have stuck it out—for five or so more minutes—but I can’t say that I wasn’t happy to see him go. From this experience, I hope he learned a valuable life lesson: All roads don’t lead home.

Who was the Somnolent Stranger, anyway?

Bleary eyes can take one to the strangest places.

In other news: It's summertime. I had previously vowed to cut back on pizza toppings for blood-pressure reasons. But since mine is pretty good, I'm throwing caution to the wind and living dangerously.

For those, like me, who don't have access to a barbecue grill, I highly recommend a hot dog roller. I hadn't enjoyed a good wiener at home in years. But the roller definitely kicked the franks up a notch, bringing me back—for one brief shining moment at least—to the ballpark concession stand hot dogs of my youth.

This isn't my plate. I don't put ketchup on home fries. The diner patron here is on blood-pressure meds and a medley of others. But I suppose that's what they are for.

Meanwhile, back at the Democratic presidential primary debates. Really, Joe Biden was a heartbeat away from the presidency for eight years. Let's not try to make him a villain now. Sorry, Kamala, but that prepared ambush was a bit much in my opinion. By the way: How are the T-shirt sales?

Craigslist in the bright light of day.

One picture is worth a thousand words...

It was a hot afternoon, next-to-last day in June and the sun was a demon. Better to be among the 400 participants in the annual New York City Jet Ski Invasion.

I can only assume that the Angry Man in a Strange Land ended up on this side. Hope he didn't try to cross the tracks.

Help, I need somebody. Just don't shoot the messenger.

The curious Lime bikes turn up in the oddest places and in the oddest positions.

My father was an Esso, later Exxon, gas man. "Put a tiger in your tank" was the company slogan back in the day.

Spring was quite rainy and pretty cool in these parts.

So, it's kind of hard to believe that the Fourth of July is this week.

I can appreciate why a subway conductor might want to flip the bird in lieu of a pedestrian point at a ubiquitous zebra board, which indicates that the train is properly aligned in a station. On the Number 1 train, he or she has to point at the thing thirty-seven times per trip. In the dark and muggy recesses of the underground during summertime, that's a lot of finger-pointing. 

New York City's official bird is a bird for all seasons.

Hey there, Mystery Man, your train is arriving. Happy trails!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)