The Uncle Kevin Channel

I had hoped not to channel Uncle Kevin ever again. But I suppose it’s inevitable that I do every now and then. In case you don’t know, Uncle Kevin’s not actually my uncle. And he’s been dead a very long time. Uncle Kevin was a veteran of World War I. The aforementioned is a personage from the old neighborhood—someone whom I remember well from my youth. You see, Uncle Kevin stood out from the pack—in what were very interesting times with an intriguing local ensemble—because he wore a wooden leg. Then as now, it was a pretty rare thing. Uncle Kevin was a very private fellow but a real gentleman, I've been told. In my presence, I don’t recall him uttering a syllable, but I’m certain—away from my prying eyes and ears—that he did.

It’s Uncle Kevin’s noticeably stiff and laborious gait—courtesy of that darn wooden leg—that I channeled again a couple of days ago. Without fair warning, my ordinarily reliable C-Leg decided to go south on me when I was a long way from home. In other words, my prosthetic knee didn’t bend when it was supposed to bend. And when this unexpectedly occurs in the act of walking, the tendency is for one’s upper-body to rush forward, leaving one’s flesh-and-blood leg in the dust. The lagging leg then valiantly endeavors to catch up—to where it was meant to be in the best of times—with an awkward and perilous thrust of its own.

So, before I channeled Uncle Kevin on Christopher Street in Manhattan, Monty Python’s Flying Circus sprang to mind. “Yes,” I said to myself upon the knee’s unanticipated and unwelcome locking, “I just affected a ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ step.” Naturally, I hoped my newfound complication would be something minor—a glitch that could be easily remedied on the sidewalk where I stood. But, considering the age of the knee—now over five years and just past its warranty—I made peace with the fact that Uncle Kevin would accompany me home, which he did. 

In the waning hours of my functioning knee, I encountered a transit employee reading a book during a break. One doesn't see that too often nowadays.

When I entered the subway car, the sole passenger inside was perusing a newspaper. That's pretty uncommon, as well, in these uber-technological times. A staggering one-two visual!

This, by the way, is a mysterious cage at the 125th Street subway station. I have long wondered if this is where fare beaters get their comeuppance.

In the backdrop of these venerable water towers, the clouds were impressive. But, little did I know, my fluid steps were numbered.

A pleasant summer's afternoon with low humidity...the perfect day for a stroll. That is...

Until technology does a nosedive. Further evidence as to why I don't ever want to be a passenger in a computer-operated automobile or computer-operated anything else.

Strange, but approximately a year ago, I penned a blog entitled "Sex and the City," where I noted the peculiar advertisements on the front bumpers of New York City's fleet of buses. Drivers complained that the prominently placed "Museum of Sex" promos were making them the subject of ridicule and worse than that. The Metropolitan Transit Authority brass promptly acted and removed them.

But now they are back and in the same place as before. Go figure! And, again, how is it that the Museum of Sex can afford this massive ad buy? If you're interested, the museum's located at 233 Fifth Avenue at the corner of East 27th Street.

No dial tone...no kidding.

Place your favorite "Bill" here.

As a nation, I'd say, we're definitely going the wrong way. Skeptical? Pore over the past month's news.

Think of all the things that we once assumed were immortal that have largely disappeared. Like typewriters, camera film, and record players. While pay phones haven't vanished entirely, their numbers are fast dwindling. In many parts of Manhattan they are—quite literally—shells of their former selves. No dial tone...no phone.

The optimist in me is still clinging to an infinitesimal thread of hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

The trashing of the environment for our every little convenience needs to hit the pause button, I'd say. Uncle Kevin not only valiantly served his country—losing a limb along the way—but left a minimal carbon footprint as well.

On my recent journey, I just knew that the reading of physical books and newspapers would be short-lived.

Oh, I remember when my favorite team, the New York Mets, lost an exhibition game to the expansion Toronto Blue Jays. The year was 1977 and this weird guy named Bob—not surprisingly a Yankee fan—ribbed me about it. That said, I've just finished reading Here's the Catch, Ron Swoboda's engaging and honest memoir of his life and, of course, the 1969 "Miracle Mets." I always liked Swoboda who was—after his baseball career—a sportscaster for WCBS-TV news in New York. Ron Swoboda also made the greatest catch I ever saw. Wow, it's hard to believe that it's been fifty years since the miracle!

Even as a junk food-loving kid, I never liked Little Debbie stuff. That's saying something and nothing at the same time.

Some years ago, an older man who lived in this building told a younger man that "sooner or later" he had to "face reality" and get a "real job." Well, reality bites! The now even older man was recently informed that he could not drive anymore because of his failing eyesight. From what I hear, he's had some difficulty facing reality.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Cold Stove Report

Yes, it’s summertime and hot around here—extremely hot. The pictures accompanying this essay are to not only be seen but felt as well. Feel the heat and humidity. Take a deep breath and the smell the oppressive underground. On Friday, I rode the subway to and from Manhattan—in air-conditioned cars this go-round. I didn’t see the gambling man on this trip—perhaps he hit it big with that dollar of mine—but I did encounter a fellow who claimed to be “God’s prophet.” From the outset, I prayed that his mission was to preach to—and convert—the entire train. That way his time spent in my presence would be relatively short. Unfortunately, he confined himself to one car—the one that he entered with me in it.

For multiple stops, this man didn’t come up for air. He quoted passages from the Bible and enumerated a whole host of sins—ranging from lesbianism to masturbation—for which transgressors would be consigned to eternal damnation. After processing this litany, I could say with some confidence—as I scanned my fellow passengers—that there was not one among us who was heaven-bound. God’s prophet mercifully exited at 50th Street, which put him in the heart of the theater district, near Radio City Musical Hall, and also Rockefeller Center. In the heat of the day, I’m certain he found sinners aplenty—from all over the world, too—to chide and relegate to the nether regions.

Several hours after my subway ride and religious experience—during the rush hour—a “network communications issue” suspended service for seven of the numbered train lines. That's a lot of miles. I can’t say whether it was an act of God or not. The powers-that-be professed that it had nothing to do with the excessive heat or an electrical failure. I don’t suspect stranded riders took much solace from that. In any event, this computer glitch left those at the command center—subway central as it were—unaware where all their trains were for over an hour.

This mechanical hiccup is further evidence that technology—even the most advanced—is quite fallible.  As I loathe driving—especially in the New York City area—I have long wondered whether or not I will live to see the day when I could be chauffeured to my destination by just asking Alexa—or some such thing—to take me there. Wouldn’t it be nice to just punch in some coordinates, I thought, and leave the driving to software in the dashboard? But now I can't help but think about the gremlins lurking in there.

Once upon a time, too, I appreciated the slogan: “Go Greyhound and leave the driving to us.” But I’ve since been on some very long bus rides where I left the driving to them—or a competitor of theirs—and they were pretty uncomfortable. In fact, the long rides seemed even longer than if I was behind the wheel myself, which says a lot. Of course, I had to sit next to a person unknown on a few occasions. You can choose your friends and not your relatives or fellow bus riders. Once I got stuck sitting beside an incredibly uninteresting blowhard eating a stinking sandwich. Perhaps, though, that is preferable to sitting alone in a computer-operated car that malfunctions on a heavily trafficked highway.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Master of His Domain…Not

(A reprise from July 2018. Proof that not all memories "sweeten through the ages just like wine.")

Forty years ago on the Number 1 train into Manhattan, I witnessed a robbery at gunpoint. An underground desperado snatched a woman’s purse while brandishing a firearm. And as the train sat in the station for a spell—deference to a crime having been committed—the victim cried out for police assistance. I was on my way that morning to see the movie Heaven Can Wait, which starred Warren Beatty when he was a star and not an octogenarian.

The 1970s were pretty gritty times in the Big Apple. The city actually breathed its last gasp as an affordable place to live back then, but it sported character—albeit a bit perverse—through it all. New York’s decomposition played out against a colorful backdrop of mom-and-pop businesses, including candy stores, record shops, and diners, which were still around in great numbers. But, sadly, their days were numbered.

Fast-forward forty years and I am on the Number 1 train once more. While I witnessed a first at the age of fifteen all those years ago—a robbery at gunpoint—I beheld another yesterday. While I had rather not been witness for either, yesterday’s episode was more disturbing. Give me a good old-fashioned holdup any day.

Entering the last car as I typically do on my return trip to the Bronx, I boarded the train at 14th Street. There were several passengers in the car, including a disheveled homeless man in the rear. Such a sighting is not unusual in the New York City subway system and the last car increases the odds exponentially. But what I subsequently beheld was a first—and hopefully a last—for me.

Let me put it this way: This poor fellow was not the master of his domain. When I first laid eyes on him I thought he might be having a seizure or some such thing. But it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t. When an athletic-looking woman got on the train at the next stop, she headed for a place to sit in the direction of said man who was not the master of his domain. Stunned and disgusted, she didn’t hold back and angrily chided him for his unseemly behavior. He, though, was oblivious to the tirade. The woman then unleashed her fury on the rest of us in earshot. “Are you all so desensitized to this!” she cried.

I can’t speak for everybody there who plunked down $2.75 for the peep show, but I certainly wasn’t desensitized to the spectacle. I hoped initially that it would be a done deal in short order. When it became clear to me that it wasn’t to be, I plotted my escape. It’s just one of those things. What are passengers supposed to do when they enter a train and confront an unexpected and unpleasant unknown?

If the unknown is what I encountered yesterday, the best option is to move on to smaller and better things, which the justifiably livid lady and I—plus one other guy—did at the next stop. She and he scurried into a different car. I waited for the next train and hoped and prayed that every passenger therein would be the master of his or her domain. Thankfully they were.

Apparently, there is a first time for everything. Happily for me on New York City subways they occur every forty years. And I don’t suspect I’ll be riding the Number 1 train—or even be among the living—when I’m ninety-five.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

7-4-6

In a New York City summer, heat, humidity, and haze—the 3Hs—are the norm from time to time in July and August. As are random subway cars without functioning air conditioning. Typically, you can tell which ones are urban greenhouses by the open windows. The narrow rectangular ones that are opened to let in a little real air—foul as it sometimes is—when Mother Nature and failing machinery do the summer tango.

Well, today was a 3H day—hot as hell—from the get-go. Riding the subway was therefore bound to be an adventure. And, right from the start, it was. Sitting in the first car at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal—the Number 1 train’s blast-off point—the temperature seemed on the high side. But, then, the doors were open and what was outside—unbearable and unhealthy clamminess—consumed what was inside.

When I originally entered the car the train operator was already in her cabin. I saw her peering out the cab’s small window. There I sat alone—if you didn’t count the unconscious rider leftover from a previous trip. Spotting me, she opened the cabin door and exclaimed in a not particularly friendly manner: “There’s no air conditioning in this car. I would suggest you go into the next one.” I took her advice.

The second car seemed pretty hot, too, but occasionally there were brief teases of cold air that I could feel. Mostly, though, it felt un-air conditioned, which inspired a never-ending parade of passengers playing musical cars during the trip downtown. That is, hopping from one car to the next in search of a little relief on a bad air-quality summer’s day in the muggy and malodorous underground.

Also on my morning train ride was this deranged fellow—unbowed by the weather, it appeared—whom I’ve seen on multiple occasions through the years. He’s benignly scary, I’d say, and his spiel never varies: “Excuse me. I’m hungry. Can you spare some change.” The man recites it in a demented monotone—over and over and over—as he dashes through the car without a cup, hat, or even his hand out. I always want to give him something, but he makes it extremely difficult because he never—even for a split second—hits the pause button or looks left or right.

Well, this uncomfortable morn, I stuck a dollar in front of his furiously moving body during an unexpected encore performance. He thanked me in his inimitable style and said he was going to play the numbers with it—7-4-6. Apparently, the empty stomach could wait. He confessed, too, to being an unrepentant gambler who would never give it up. And he expects to win a billion dollars some day! The strangest moment in our encounter was when the gambling man down under pulled a smartphone from his pocket and scrolled  it with some proficiency. He informed me, then and there, that he had twenty-seven minutes to reach his destination, where he would play 7-4-6. So, into the crowded and stifling Times Square station this curious straphanger went. I can only hope that if he wins a billion dollars, he’ll remember me. Because I suspect we’ll meet again. Both he and I are men for all seasons.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Summer Wind

There was a blackout in parts of Manhattan last evening. The culprit was a manhole fire. Coincidentally, the night the lights went out on Broadway occurred on the anniversary of the more widespread New York City blackout of 1977, when the hapless Mayor Beame chided local utility Con Edison for its "gross negligence." Yesterday’s power snafu was also brief by comparison. The looters didn’t even have time to raise an army. Anyway, it’s summertime and feels like it…

Well, what do you know: It's the "sweetheart of the corn" on a hot corner across from the police precinct. On the trash basket is a notice that it's against the law to deposit household trash in it.

I'm Sirius: The "dog days of summer" have arrived.

I came upon this heavy tool or weighty screw—whatever it is—on Broadway under the El. It was just lying there—unclaimed and unwanted—for days. I wondered how it got there and whether it fell from above. If, by chance, it did fall from on high, somebody—to employ a cliché—could have been killed.

New York's Bravest support their favorite baseball team. I say: Let's go Mets!

When a rickety old wooden park bench isn't good enough.

I have often passed Genius Tailor in Manhattan. If I ever required the services of a tailor, I thought more than once, I'd take my business there. And if I ever required the services of a builder, I now know who to call. 

At the Van Cortlandt Park subway terminal, I recently spied a sign of the times specifically for Metropolitan Transportation Authority employees. It stated in no uncertain terms to lay off the smartphones while on the job—a rather dangerous one involving high-voltage electricity and fast-moving trains. 

It's a point well taken...

And speaking of smartphones: I feel nervous enough on narrow subway platforms with fellow passengers blindly staring into them. These oblivious folks are blissfully unaware that passersby are a hip-check away from getting thrown in front of a fast-moving train.

While descending a subway station stairwell on the Fourth of July, I snapped this picture of Old Glory blowing in the wind. Gave proof through the night that our flag—and the Punch Bowl—were still there.

Also on Independence Day, I encountered a dopey kid—not unusual—who made himself quite comfortable over several subway car seats. When a woman entered—with unoccupied seats by then at a premium—he was compelled to sit up straight. The peeved passenger had to brush dirt away before sitting down.

The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island on the Fourth. Strange times we live in.

I realize this is a park bench, but the image found me singing: "One bottle of beer on the wall, one bottle of beer. Take one down and pass it around, no more bottles of beer on the wall."

 As I recall from my driver's education, a Stop Sign means that one has to come to a complete stop before proceeding. I guess that's not taught in driver's ed anymore.

In New York City, love is in the air...or is it ozone...

In any event, it's generating sparks.

Here comes the one. Here comes the one. And I say it's all right.

I lost you to the summer wind. In the 1940s, my grandfather was searching for a home of his own—an immigrant's dream. He loved this particular one because it featured a considerable adjoining lot where he could plant a garden. But it wasn't to be because my grandfather needed a multiple-family house with a tenant to help pay his mortgage. Besides, a friend of his told him that there were ample empty lots in Kingsbridge—which there were at the time—where he could garden. Footnote: When I was a boy three decades later, the yard pictured had cherry and pear trees on it. The owners that I knew never gardened, barbecued, or even sat out in their expansive and rather rare grassy lawn in the Bronx. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)