Garbage for Algernon

Mice have an uncanny knack for finding their way indoors. Their points of entry typically remain a mystery to those of us on two legs. Honestly, I’d rather not have to vanquish them from the premises, but what choice do I have? Those poppy seed-looking droppings on my stove, butcher-block table, and kitchen counter top cannot be tolerated.

A couple of nights ago, I placed a new garbage bag in my kitchen trashcan and—moments later—heard a crinkling sound coming from it. Considering that I was on high mouse alert, I feared the worst when I peered into the bag. When I spied no such creature on four legs, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was bedtime and a live-mouse sighting was the last thing I needed before entering the land of Nod.

In the wee small hours of the morning, however, my good fortune lapsed and the crinkling sound returned louder than ever. I couldn’t rationalize it away this go-round. So, I gingerly rose from my bed, walked into the kitchen, and nervously gazed into the trashcan. I don't exactly know why little mice frighten big people so much, but they sure do. Well, the bag therein was flattened—completely. I logically deduced that there was a mouse-in-motion somewhere underneath it. Rather than lift the bag up in the middle of the night and confirm my suspicion, I carried the can to my front door, deposited it in the great outdoors, and went back to sleep never having laid eyes on a creature of the night.

In the morning, I walked my kitchen trashcan to the curbside, placed it on its side, and gingerly plucked out the trash bag, which was speckled with poppy-seed droppings and wet with urine. A tiny mouse darted away in a circular frenzy to God knows where. I sincerely hope that it didn’t find its way back into the house, where the poor critter would very likely have consumed poison from the traps that I set. Again, I hate to have to do it—and feel guilty about it, too—but it’s the law of the jungle. Anyway, on to more pleasant thoughts in the fledgling days of autumn.

It's the little things in life that often bring us the most pleasure. Discovering a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts rack recently at a local drug store brightened my day. I stored them on my butcher-block table, which was reason enough to stanch the mouse invasion toot sweet.

Goldbelly has come into my life with a vengeance. In virtual reality, ads for it appear everywhere. Some things, I guess, are worth vastly overpaying for the privilege...

Gray skies...smiling at me...nothing but gray skies do I see. Now, how about a little rain.

After two months of channeling Uncle Kevin, I, at long last, made my comeback...rather awkwardly but it felt good nonetheless.

Here's an update on the "Keep Lock" locker at the Van Cortlandt Park Terminal. It's showing wear and tear with the passage of time, just like the rest of us.

Nowadays, more and more bicycles are seen on the streets and subway platforms of New York City. This is both a good and bad thing. Good for the environment and overall traffic situation, but something of a pedestrian menace in places. While getting hit by a bicycle is preferable to getting struck by a car, truck, or bus, I like to feel safe after crossing a busy street. Be ever-vigilant of those bike paths and those whizzing bicyclists.

Being on the subway is music to my ears. Actually, no, it's quite horrifying in many instances.

It was a very nice weekend in the bright light of day and—from my perspective at least—rather uneventful in the underground. Not quite music to my ears, but not horrifying either.

This reminded me of being a little kid with a missing front tooth.

It isn't just ants that squirrel away for winter. Squirrels deserve their due, too.

If you can't have the whole world in your hands, Lady Liberty is the next best thing. In one of your hands at least.

Another year has passed. It's time for the eighteenth annual Tunnel to Towers 5K Run & Walk, which raises money for the first responders, military personnel, civilians, and families impacted by the tragic events of 9/11.  Lots of bottled water for participants. 

It was ideal weather for this year's marathon, which retraces FDNY firefighter Stephen Siller's steps on September 11, 2001. He had finished his shift and was on his way home when word reached him that a plane had struck one of the World Trade Center towers. Siller reversed course, strapped on seventy-five pounds of gear, and made his way through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel on foot. He lost his life that day.

This is the ultimate catbird's seat.

Sun...take a good look around...the Tunnel to Towers Run & Walk makes one appreciate that there is more to America than political posturing and pathetic politicians. It's quite a diverse event, too. We're

all in this together after all, aren't we?

Be it ever so crumble...there's no place like home. Some places, though, are a whole better.

After a major renovation, a spanking new, modern McDonald's finally opened in the old neighborhood. Evidently, the place means an awful lot to an awful lot of people. I'm not one of them. Its reopening doesn't rise to the level of spying a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts rack in the drug store. 

Finally, it's time to stop and think about the future. Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Krispy Kreme Doughnuts in the store—yes! Tunnel to Towers Run & Walk—yes. Reading the news—no! The contemporary state of the American politician and politics—no, no, no!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Martyr

I can’t explain the reason why, but I woke up this morning and said aloud to myself, “Don’t play the martyr!” I uttered it in a affected patrician voice, underscoring the word marrr-tyrrr. It’s what happens to those of us who go through life indelibly recording in our brains seemingly inconsequential remarks by obscure people in not especially exciting places.

A little backstory is in order here: Approximately thirty years ago, I worked in a pet food and supplies store called Pet Nosh. I came in contact with an eclectic collection of customers there, some of whom were quite eccentric and, I daresay, extraordinarily annoying as well. There was this one man who, if memory serves, was a dog breeder. Now, I might be painting with a broad brush here—but I really don’t think so—when I say that breeders tended to be an unsavory breed, if you will, of the human animal. This particular guy was right out of Central Casting. Tall, slender, and haughty, he looked and sounded like a bona fide Westchester blueblood. For those unfamiliar with this neck of the woods, Westchester is a county that borders the North Bronx. Courtesy of its Yonkers location, Pet Nosh catered to a diverse clientele, including men and women from such tony Westchester towns and villages as Scarsdale and Bronxville.

In one of his many visits to Pet Nosh, my favorite Westchester bluebood—who lives on in my mind all these years later—got into an argument with a customer of the opposite sex. She felt he had wronged her in some way, accusing him of cutting the line or some such thing. When she vociferously complained about being an aggrieved party, the pompous patrician would have none of it. He exclaimed, “Don’t play the martyr!” That was thirty years ago. I said the same thing this morning. And, if I do say, I’ve got that man’s pretentious intonation down pat. In fairness to him, I suspect that the individual who played the martyr in that insignificant snapshot in time was no wronged innocent bystander. While I don’t remember the details of that in-store dispute, my gut feeling in 2019 is that I was happy to see both of their backs on the way out in 1989.

And I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by saying that the main protagonist of this essay—who once upon a time shopped at a place called Pet Nosh—is resting now in a cemetery or in an urn on a mantel somewhere. There are no more human beings playing the martyr—to his great dismay—in his earthly presence. Ah, but little did he know that in his sunset years I—every now and then—thought about him and mimicked him for nobody’s amusement but my own.

I have long wondered whether or not this man went home after that storied stopover at Pet Nosh and informed his wife, children, and grandchildren about the contentious row he had with a fellow store patron. Did he find that close encounter on the dog-eat-dog retail frontier memorable or not? I can’t say. What I can say is that I was witness to it all. I was there to ensure that one brief moment in time—in an indistinct little corner of the world—would stand the test of time and never, ever be forgotten. So, remember, don’t play the marrrtyrrr. You won’t regret it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Mikey Rosco Plant

The late-summer shadows speak volumes. It’s back-to-school time and time, too, for the "Mikey Rosco" perennials to flower. When I was of school age all those years ago, a neighbor family had these plants in their front-stoop boxes that came back every year. They always flowered in late summer and bloomed through the better part of the fall. I called them “Mikey Rosco plants” back then and remember how they attracted a never-ending parade of honeybees and some butterflies as well. Their star-shaped flowers would be covered with bees sometimes as they transitioned in color from pink to a coppery hue befitting the changing season. The leaves on the plant were thick and moist. We youths would sometimes break off a leaf and use it like a magic marker on the concrete.

Of course, nobody ever thought to inform me that the plant in question had a name other than “Mikey Rosco”: “Autumn Joy Sedum.” But then again, I doubt too many folks in the old neighborhood knew that. The elderly Italian lady who originally planted them was gone and her son—who didn’t have her green thumb—probably didn’t know that they were Autumn Joy Sedums that sprung to life every spring in his front flower boxes. Still, he got a plant named after him, which is not something that happens to everyone.

Anyway, I thought of the Mikey Rosco plants today when I spotted some not too far from the storied ones of my boyhood. There were no honeybees on the pink flowers, which is sad but not surprising nowadays. In fact, the plants looked rather forlorn without any busy bees and butterflies on them. I know as a fact that these plants have been there for decades—spreading all the while—in front of a home that once upon a time was owned by the McHugh family, two generations of certifiable oddballs. Father, mother, and son lived on the old block without ever meeting the eyes of a single neighbor. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration but only a tiny bit.

Mr. McHugh, the family patriarch, would walk down the block—passing a stoop full of people alongside the Mikey Rosco plants—woodenly staring into the distance. I don’t recall him ever uttering a word. By chance, my father served on a jury panel with him at the Bronx County Courthouse. He learned then that his mysterious and reticent neighbor, Mr. McHugh, could actually speak—in a brogue—and worked as an elevator operator. I’d have been very leery getting in an elevator with that dead-ringer for John List—"and that's the truth" to borrow from Lily Tomlin.

Mrs. McHugh, on the other hand, was equally furtive, creepy, and silent most of the time. When my younger brother and I purloined an empty cardboard produce box, which was resting near her garbage cans by the front sidewalk, she at long last spoke and in a rather loud and excitable brogue at that. In fairness to us, we assumed the box was part of the garbage and wanted it for some youthful project that now escapes me. But when we grabbed it, Mrs. McHugh pounced, throwing open her front storm door and shrieking: “Put that back! Put that back! Put that back!” In retrospect, my brother and I should have stopped dead in our tracks and returned the empty box, but our initial reaction was to run—and run away with it is what we did.

Honestly, I don't think this little escapade rises to the level of the Antwerp diamond heist. In fact, I didn’t even think it rose to level of a sin worth confessing to a priest in a pitch-black, claustrophobic closet forty-five years ago. Without working up a sweat, Mrs. McHugh very likely located another empty produce box to replace the one we made off with.

All of these memories are courtesy of my spying flowering Mikey Rosco plants on the McHugh’s old homestead, which is now a residence for the developmentally disabled. The McHugh’s sold the house to the state some three decades ago. There was some controversy back then about the deal and what it would mean to a quiet residential neighborhood. But life and the Mikey Rosco plants went on without missing a beat.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)