It Is the Heat...and the Humidity

(Originally published 7/18/18)

Once upon a time, I lived on the top floor of a three-family home in the Bronx. I was one of five kids in a family of seven. Yes, there were two parents on the scene, and we all made do with one bathroom and no air-conditioning in the dog days of past New York City summers. I remember feeling somewhat cheated that I didn't have the option—like some of my friends with air-conditioners did—to cool off when the thermometer and relative humidity performed their suffocating duet. But that was then and this is now. I am today a party of one with an air-conditioner. And so, I can observe the sights and sounds of my surroundings in the stifling summer of 2018 and retreat—when the days are done—to the colder, drier climes of the great indoors.

Meanwhile, on the outside, I recently encountered this peculiar subway graffiti. It was the word "TATTOO" spelled out in dings. This sighting prompted me to silently exclaim, "De train, Boss, de train!"

Good to know that if you are tired of McDonald's old stale beef there is now an alternative. This sign also reminded me of simpler times in American politics. In the 1980 Republican primaries, Ronald Reagan misspoke in quoting Founding Father John Adams. He meant to say, "Facts are stubborn things!" but instead said, "Facts are stupid things! Not to be outdone, Ted Kennedy, running against incumbent President Jimmy Carter in the Democratic primaries, addressed farm families in Iowa as "fam farmilies." Of course, nowadays facts are considered stupid things by an awful lot of people.

It's the "In New York We Don't Serve Teens and You Shouldn't Either" truck. Wonder what's inside? What delights they hide. By the way, I just quoted lyrics from the song Christmas Children in the movie musical Scrooge, 1970, starring Albert Finney.

If there's a tomato in distress, now you know who to call.

Maybe it's just me but I find this slogan of theirs on the unappetizing side.

In the Bizarro World, students make $10,000 or more a month and don't pay tuition...

This blue jay can confirm that it's been a nasty month of July.

If you don't know, that's Grandpa Stroehmann on the bread truck. I had a driving instructor who would regularly caution me—when the situations warranted it—to "Watch out for Grandpa!" He is still plying his trade as an eighty-year-old man.

You see that open window? That can mean only one thing: It's a hot car. At this time of year, subway conductors make announcements that advise riders escaping hot cars to make it snappy.

I saw this downed wire this morning and thought about some of the programs I've watched this year on Netflix and Amazon Prime. Breaking Bad, Ozark, and The Wire came to mind. Drug dealers and drug dealing make for better entertainment on-screen than off. 

If the shop's interior appearing trashed and pretty much emptied—with a chain lock on the front door—wasn't enough to convince you this eatery is shut down for good, the words "Closed...Closed...Closed" spelled out in black magic marker should have done the trick.

Hot and humid Fourth of July...the camera never blinks.

Not too long after this photo was taken, a protester scaled Lady Liberty, which shut down the island for multiple hours and cost the city a pretty penny. The bill is in the mail, I hope.

There are things around us that we overlook and take for granted for far too long...

Go North, young men...

Richard Kimble looked at the world for the last time and saw only darkness. These kids saw me sitting in Van Cortlandt's Tail, also known to a few of us as the Bum Park North.

A subway car I was riding in was chock-full of Klarna ads. I had never heard of Klarna before. It's not an ice cream manufacturer after all.

"Be it ever so crumble, there's no place like home." Referring to the 4077th, Major Winchester once uttered those words on M*A*S*H.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Mum’s Not the Word Anymore

When I attended Cardinal Spellman High School all those years ago, students typically had a “free period”—or two in some instances—each and every school day. We were confronted with several options during these much-appreciated respites from the educational grind. Visiting the cafeteria was a popular option, which I often did during non-lunch periods—the calm before or after the storms, as it were. Another possibility was the school’s library, where absolute quiet was not only the rule, but enforced without exception and with an iron fist by chief librarian Sister Mary Louise. What was dubbed “quiet study,” in a classroom with a faculty monitor, was a benign choice. Mum was the word, but without Attila the Nun waiting to pounce like a frog on a fly. Finally, students could attend the also monitored “loud study”—as I so cleverly called it in my witty teen years—and kibbitz with one another without fear of reprobation.

It was an era where quiet was expected in certain bailiwicks like libraries. I distinctly remember my local public library in the 1970s. You could hear a pin drop in that place. The librarians were quick to “shush” violators of the established protocols. Nowadays, of course, the library experience has changed. Kids use computers there to play interactive online games with sound and no earphones. Noise that everyone can hear. Multiply that by five, six, seven, or eight, and it’s disconcerting. Throw in personal phone conversations and it’s a raucous party room. There is no more shushing in libraries—at least around here—and talk is both cheap and earsplitting.

A few months back, I was summoned to jury duty, which eluded me somehow for thirty years. That, too, was a much louder experience than in the past. In the 1990s and earlier, there were no big screen TVs in the jury assembly room tuned into annoying game shows and obnoxious talk fests with the volume turned way, way up. My prior memories of serving were on the serene side. One could talk in the rooms, but there was no music or deafening televisions to intrude on the noble civic service waiting game. Prospective jurors brought books and newspapers with them.

Loud distractions are here to stay, I guess. But why, pray tell, do eateries or doctors’ waiting rooms need TVs? I’d rather not be subject to The View with my burger and fries or before learning that I have a terminal illness and only six months to live. A healthy portion of the masses fear quiet contemplation. In my neighborhood, modified cars, motorcycles, and scooters traverse once quiet—or quieter—streets and most people don’t bat an eye. Sports venues blast music—and not of the elevator or organist variety—to fill in every moment of inactivity on the fields of play. I suppose in this age of short attention spans, noise—and the louder the better—calms those afflicted.

Lastly, a footnote taking me back to that more peaceful age: Upon graduation from high school, I worked in a small retail shop called Pet Nosh—owned by my older brother and a neighbor—in Yonkers, just north of the Bronx. Often in its nascent days, I was the sole employee on the premises. One morning, two customers arrived together—two Sisters of Charity—that I knew from my secondary educational experience. It was none other than the librarian and an administrator/teacher, who I had for a course called "Finite Math." Only three years removed from high school, my legs got a little wobbly in their presence. They didn’t recognize me, though, and I debated whether I should declare: “I know who you are, ladies!” I didn’t because, after all, I was a quiet young man living in quieter times. In retrospect, I wish I had done the big reveal. They were very pleasant outside of the confines of Cardinal Spellman. Yes, quietude has its place in certain places and is sorely missed.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

This Day in History

(Originally published 7/13/13. It's now forty-five years since the lights went out at the Big Shea and throughout the big city. A footnote: The lights permanently went out at Shea Stadium in 2008.)

Thirty-six years ago tonight the lights went out at Shea Stadium. Give or take a couple of minutes, the time was 9:34 p.m. Save a handful of Rockaway, Queens neighborhoods not served by local utility Con Edison, the rest of New York City also went dark. I was not in attendance of this historic Mets’ game versus the Chicago Cubs, but I always wished I had been on what turned out to be a night to remember. I happened to be a long away from home—on a family vacation in a place called Chadwick Beach along the New Jersey Shore—and listening to the game on my favorite radio of all-time. It was a durable Christmas gift that also picked up the audio of local television stations.

I vividly remember Mets’ announcer Ralph Kiner saying that he could see cars going over the darkened Whitestone Bridge in the distance. Ralph had mistakenly called it the Throgs Neck Bridge in the past, which is not visible from the radio booth. The man, a great storyteller who is sorely missed, had a charming knack for sometimes getting things wrong.

Riveted at this blackout that I wasn’t home to enjoy—history in the making—I continued listening to the suspended game. I figured it was a temporary glitch that would soon be remedied—but it wasn’t for twenty-four hours. It didn’t take very long for the Mets’ radio station to lose its signal—several minutes—leaving me in the dark concerning the goings-on back in my hometown. Awaiting the power’s return, I subsequently learned that New York Mets’ organist Jane Jarvis plowed through her entire repertoire, and even started playing holiday carols like “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas” to keep the fans entertained until the lights came back on, which they didn't that night.

Although not nearly as brutal as New York City’s infamous three "H" weather—hazy, hot, and humid—it was a rather steamy evening in Chadwick Beach, too. While the thermometer hovered close to one hundred degrees that day in the Big Apple, it was in the nineties in our vacation hamlet. That summer, our Bronx neighbors from just up the street shared the same shore house with us. They resided in the upper floor while we set up vacation shop in the lower half. Without air conditioning in this two-family rental, which they were accustomed to in the Bronx, it got a wee bit too hot for them a day or so prior to the blackout, and they returned home to bask in refrigerated indoor air until the heat wave broke. From their prospective, it was preferable to sweating putty balls on the New Jersey Shore. The fact that both Barnegat Bay and the Atlantic Ocean were a stone's throw away mattered little.

Ironically, as things turned out, our neighbors were back in the Bronx, instead of on vacation, when the city went dark and put their air conditioning on ice. I know they didn't see it that way, but I recall thinking how lucky they were to be back home, sweating and suffering, watching and waiting, for the lights and the air conditioners to come back on. Such was the passion of youth.

The Summers of Sam’s

(Originally published 6/22/18)

Today is the first full day of summer. Once upon a time, that distinction meant a great deal to me. For summertime in my youth—while often incredibly hot and humid—was chock full of fun, freedom, and frivolity. It little mattered that I didn’t have air conditioning in my family’s upstairs lair and that local utility Con Edison periodically zapped neighborhoods—typically the less well-to-do ones—with brownouts. In other words, our ice cubes would half melt, refreeze, and taste pretty awful at the end of the day. A cool refreshing drink during the worst dog days of summer wasn’t always possible.

While I consumed an awful lot of pizza in the fall, winter, and spring, there was something special about summertime and a place called Sam’s Pizza—a hot dog at the ballpark sort of thing. In its Kingsbridge heyday in the 1970s when I was a teen, the spot was my preferred dining establishment outside of home. A slice cost fifty and sixty cents then—a different era for pizza and just about everything else. On the hottest of hot days, there was nothing quite like dropping by for a couple of slices to go or, better yet, a couple of “Sicilians,” which cost a whopping ten cents more.

Forty years ago, Sam’s Pizza sole source of beating the heat was a small fan atop the front door. Suffice it to say, the contraption didn’t do much in combating the torridity of the Summers of Sam’s. In fact, the fan underscored the unbearable clamminess that came with the territory of peddling pizza on a busy Bronx thoroughfare in the months of June, July, August, and even September.

I vividly recall the humming of the fan on an oppressive summer’s afternoon. While my slices of pizza warmed in the oven, I perspired in the stifling interior of Sam’s while awaiting my take-out, which locals could readily detect by the grease stains on the brown paper bag. Sometimes the bags were so laden with oil, they would come apart on the street. Grease was definitely the word back then. The funny thing is that it either enhanced the fare—good grease—or took it down a peg or two. Bad grease! Bad grease and summertime were a nauseating combination.

In the good old days, George—the venerable owner of Sam’s—would prepare a rack load of pizza pies in the morning before the shop opened. This modus operandi ensured that the over-the-counter slices weren’t always the freshest. And it assumed further significance when the thermometer topped ninety degrees. But even during those sultry summers, there was nothing quite like a piping-hot-out-of-the-oven Sicilian slice from Sam’s. My younger brother and I frequently hankered for one but always applied the “petrified” test before proceeding. Typically, this could be accomplished with a glancing visual of the Sicilian pie on the countertop. If the pie was down to a precious few rectangular slices—or had been sitting around for too many hours to count—the pizza was deemed “petrified.” Regular slices were then our only recourse. For they had a knack for surviving the sands of time and could more often than not be salvaged during the reheating. Still, it amounted to casting your fate to the summer wind.

It was definitely a hot affair in those hot times. Sam’s Pizza only sold pizza, Italian ices, and soft drinks—and eventually Jamaican beef patties—in the 1970s. Regular or Sicilian slices were the be-all and end-all. The topping possibilities were limited to extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and anchovies. There was no such thing as lasagna pizza, salad pizza, or white pizza. In fact, it always grossed me out when someone ordered a slice with mushrooms or anchovies. I’d be forced to watch George stick his hands into big cans and smother the slice with said toppings. He would then wipe them clean with a dirty rag.

Happily, I have lived to tell. And in commemoration of the Summers of Sam’s, I ordered a couple of Sicilian slices from a local pizzeria. They were pretty good as far as contemporary Sicilians go. But I can say without exaggeration that the fresh Sicilian pizza enjoyed in the Summers of Sam’s—thick, doughy, saucy, and oozing with cheese—will never be tasted again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Smell Tale Signs

When I stepped outside last evening, the summertime humidity—after a brief respite from the season’s first heat wave—had returned. The scent of the warm, stagnant air struck an olfactory chord. Not necessarily an unpleasant one. I have some fond memories of the oppressive heat-and-humidity one-two punch. Of course, I must venture back several decades to retrieve them. Once upon a time, when the calendar read June, July, and August, muggy, clammy weather was expected and accepted. The way it was. And as a kid, summer, regardless of what Mother Nature had in store, spelled fun, frolic, and freedom.

This mundane adult experience of mine inspired recollections of other smells from past summers. I grew up in a Bronx neighborhood with many alleyways separating single- and multi-family homes. In summertime, especially, with windows thrown open, aromas seeped out and distinguished neighbors from one another.

For instance, pungent cooking odors were commonplace at dinnertime, with lingering residues in the off-hours, too. One family unleashed a truly durable scent—uniquely theirs—into the great outdoors. I’d describe it as an amalgam of various foods, grease, and cat urine. They cooked and consumed all their meals in the basement of their home, which was also their feline friend’s exclusive domicile. The cat had free run down there and napped everywhere, including on the family dinner table. Having spent some time in said basement, I can say without exaggeration that it was a grimy, even gag-worthy, environment with dark, green-painted walls complementing the ickiness. But it had its charm, too. Contrarily, their upstairs living room had a bright museum feel with modern, polished furniture covered in plastic. The kitchen was Martha Stewart-worthy.

In fact, many families left their singular calling cards in the summer stillness. In those days gone by, home-cooked meals were the norm. My aunt—who lived below us with my grandmother—informed my brothers and I that we often smelled like French fries after supper. While growing up, we ate a whole lot of potatoes in many incarnations, but French fries definitely ruled. My father purchased fifty-pound bags of spuds on Arthur Avenue—Little Italy in the Bronx. Neither the temperature nor the relative humidity interfered with the daily routine.

With screen doors operational in the summer months, the scents of French fries, fish, and garlic often wafted in the still evening air. I recall a tenant family next-door who—young and old alike—smoked like chimneys and drank like fish. Their robust malodor seeped through walls and played as well indoors as outdoors. Their potent stench endured through thick and thin and was not seasonal. Imagine the wafting scent from a neighborhood watering hole on a hot and humid summer’s eve—in the 1970s, when smoking was permitted—and there you have it.

The 1970s was also an era when people still hung their wash out to dry outside on clotheslines. Certain detergents—of the powdered variety only— differentiated families, with some clothes fresh-scented and others not so much. Naturally, a defining feature that often dictated the family-scent fingerprint was personal hygiene. Let’s just say that some folks weren’t as clean as others. And body odors commingling with cooking, smoking, drinking, filthy bathrooms, and pets leaves a memorable and strong smell memory.

Finally, take me out to the ballpark. Now that was a summertime bouquet that warms the cockles of my heart. The hot dogs and the beer. It was a unique combo for sure and unforgettable. But attending baseball games also necessitated sitting next to strangers in the night, who often brought with them their scents. And on hot and humid summer evenings, they weren’t always appreciated. Fortunately, the aromas of over-priced franks and watery brews always superseded their nauseating body odors and life-shortening second-hand smoke. It was stinky summertime after all, and you could take it or leave it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

The Egg Sandwich Story

(Originally published 2/9/20)

Due to track work this morning, the Number 1 train was running in two sections. Bad news, of course, for passengers looking to get from section A to section B. Sure, there were free shuttle buses bridging the gap, but they prove time and again—to me at least—that nothing in life is free.

Despite this inconvenience, one and all soldiered on. Sitting directly across from me as my truncated ride commenced was a woman consuming what appeared to be a plain egg sandwich. I know it could have had something else on it, like cheese, but that’s neither here nor there. What this pedestrian sandwich sighting triggered was an image of two old ladies, one deceased and one still among the living. Their egg sandwich connection, however, goes back a few years when both were roaming this earthly plane.

As one gets older, there are naturally more and more moments residing in the memory bank—some rather dramatic and profound, but most quite mundane and trivial. It’s also an infinite repository for ancient slights and petty grievances. And so, it’s back to The Egg Sandwich Story and a pair of senior citizen protagonists named Alice and Rose.

Any time and every time that old Alice’s name was brought up in the presence of old Rose, the latter’s brain would promptly and without fail retrieve The Egg Sandwich Story. You see, Rose didn’t much like Alice to begin with. She felt that Alice was a neighborhood gossip par excellence, a wagging tongue that was into everybody’s business. And as if that wasn’t a bad enough character reference, she ordered an egg sandwich from a diner—a half-a-block away—for delivery! Rose couldn’t fathom why anyone would order such a sandwich when one could, rather effortlessly, crack an egg or two open at home, fry them up, and put them between two slices of bread. Then, of course, there was the icing on the cake—or ketchup on the egg sandwich in this instance—of having it delivered! What’s the matter with her legs? She can’t walk to the diner and pick it up?

When I first heard about Alice’s notorious delivered egg sandwich, I honestly didn’t view it as a character buster. From my perspective, any breakfast-style sandwich tastes better when prepared outside the home. I’ve made ham and egg and bacon and egg sandwiches that just don’t compare to the local diner equivalents. So, how could I find fault with Alice for choosing the diner over homemade?

And now, the rest of the story: After hearing about Alice’s delivered egg sandwich for the hundredth or so time, I had some new information at my disposal. Alice had actually ordered an egg salad sandwich from the diner. This isn’t something that the average person prepares at home on the spur of the moment. That piece of critical filler would not have mattered to Rose. She had Alice’s number, and no egg salad sandwich was going to change that.

If there is an abiding moral to The Egg Sandwich Story, it’s this: Be ever vigilant of what’s piling up in your memory bank. Because one day soon you might be triggered to recall a certain individual ordering a certain panini from a certain place, like Le Pain Quotiden. And, God forbid, having it delivered via DoorDash. Let The Egg Sandwich Story be a lesson to you.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Summer Wind

(Originally published 7/14/19)

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 embattled but earnest Mayor Beame chided local utility Con Edison for its "gross negligence." Yesterday’s power snafu was 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. 

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 an adjoining lot where he could plant a garden. It wasn't to be. My grandfather needed a multiple-family house with a tenant to help pay his mortgage. Besides, a friend of his informed him there were ample empty lots in Kingsbridge—which there were at the time—where he could plant a garden. Footnote: When I was a boy three decades later, the yard pictured above had cherry and pear trees on it. The longtime 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)