Menacing Mumblings, the Bickersons, and an Umbrella

It’s Christmas time in the city. Brand new adventures were in store for me this weekend, including the use of a subway bathroom at Chambers Street. An endeavor like that is typically fraught with mystery and genuine concern for what or who lies therein. First of all, it’s the exception to the rule. Most New York City subway stations have no public bathrooms. And the reason for this is made abundantly clear when you patronize the rare one open for business.

The places we will go when we have to go. Yes, I threw caution to the wind yesterday morning, gingerly elbowing the bathroom door open. A solitary urinal and stall greeted me. Happily, both were unoccupied. I noticed the former hadn’t been flushed in a while, but made a beeline to it anyway. I wondered if it could even flush. Fortunately, I identify with the male gender—Joe Biden says there are “at least three” of them—and was able to do what I had to do without coming into contact with anything bathroom related. I suffered a momentary lapse, though, when I instinctively flushed the urinal. Surprisingly, it worked. So, I did someone a small favor. I wanted to wash my hands but concluded such an act of proper hygiene in that sink would be counterproductive.

When exiting this bathroom from down under, I spied a large umbrella in the trash receptacle. Another man then entered. He looked somewhat threatening and had a lady companion—his better half—waiting outside. Not good. Seconds later, the fellow emerged from the bathroom with the umbrella in hand. He called out to me, “Sir, is this yours?” I said no in no uncertain terms.

A little while later I encountered the couple on the station platform, angrily bickering about this, that, and the other thing. The woman had the umbrella now. She eventually concluded it was not much of a find, I guess, and—in mid-bicker—tossed the thing onto the subway tracks. Her friend was not amused.

Later in my travels, a lunatic—menacingly mumbling without pause—entered the subway car that included me as a passenger. He didn’t ask anybody for anything, but his deranged presence made one and all increasingly uncomfortable. The man took off his sneakers at some point and sported extraordinarily clean white socks, which didn’t quite jibe with the rest of him. In due course, he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and began puffing away. At that moment, I knew I had rode with this guy before. Smokey the Bear’s modus operandi is to light up, deplete the oxygen in the subway car, and watch the inexorable exodus of passengers to another one. In my case, I just got off and waited for another train. 

Smoking in underground mass transit is more than I can stand nowadays. It was bad enough in above- ground mass transit during my high school days forty years ago. Against the law then and now.

I saw more than assorted loons on my weekend journeys. Saturday was relatively mild and very foggy.

That's Ellis Island out there. Lady Liberty remained totally shrouded by Mother Nature's pea soup.

As a youth, a local channel always played the public service announcement: "It's 10 p.m. Do you know where your children are?" Today, I suppose, the answer would be: More than likely staring into his or her device.

Sabrett may be "on a roll." But I sincerely doubt ol' George would think the country he helped found was on a roll. On a roll downhill...perhaps.

For prospective tourists and local aficionados of Christmas in New York, I recommend, again, visiting the Financial District.

Lots of nice decorations and lights in the canyons.

In my youth, we never ventured down to lower Manhattan at Christmas. It was all midtown then from Macy's to Rockefeller Center.

While there are plenty of tourists around the Wall Street area, the canyons are sufficiently serpentine and off-the-beaten trail to ensure there are no Rockefeller Center-like masses to contend with.

And a partridge in an artificial Christmas tree...

I saw many Millennials bedecked in Santa outfits on murky Saturday. Must have been a big party day. End of exams...Christmas vacation.

Saturday's last leg. Murkier than ever.

A new day dawned blustery, colder, and clear. I couldn't resist passing by Macy's on Sunday. I haven't stepped inside that place in some forty years. That ship has sailed. 

Upstairs, Downstairs. When I came upon this place near Penn Station, I thought of a local cheesecake factory, S&S, and how their products are available in local stores, including nearby bodegas. No need, therefore, to knock on the factory door. I wonder if the pills upstairs are available in the restaurant downstairs. No need, therefore, to climb a long flight of stairs.

My father toiled at the Farley Post Office for decades. I wonder if it has a public bathroom?

Still reading about a tree shortage this year. I got my little one from a local seller, who seems to have considerably less of an inventory this year.

Who knows what lurks in the hearts of men. The shadow knows. Sunday's last leg.

Finally, I can see why some pigeons like roosting in subway terminals. Enough scraps and non-stop action to keep things interesting. And they don't have to concern themselves with a bathroom.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)