A Bit Too Far

In the guise of subway passenger, I am inclined to give panhandlers, performers, and panhandler-performer mind-melds a dollar or two. Without warning today, a self-described performer materialized with the contemporary equivalent of Ronco’s “Mr. Microphone” and an accompanying amplifier thing. His initial insertion into the dour underground world of a subway ride was somewhat unnerving. The man proceeded to make a very loud mock-conductor announcement with the help, of course, of his magical, mystical mic.

“Next stop on this train will be Rockaway Beach,” he bellowed. The not-so-funny fellow then cited the reason for this drastic change in schedule—we were Bronx-bound—as a “giraffe on the tracks.” Not surprisingly, I didn’t think the routine was laugh-out-loud riotous, but it was—if nothing else—unique. This man with the microphone informed all in earshot that his raison d'être was to put smiles on people’s faces. He pointed out one passenger who actually cracked a smile. And so I prepared to give the guy a couple of bucks before he performed his more far-reaching main act.

To make a long story short: He should have quit while he was ahead with the giraffe-on-the-train-tracks bit. His subsequent rap was rather vile. From my perspective, it wasn’t even remotely amusing and—by the looks of things—everybody else in the subway car concurred, including the person who had previously smirked. In fact, I was pleased to see that nobody—black or white—made a “contribution,” which was the performer’s word for his Go Fund Me endgame.

Both persons of color and persons of non-color did not appreciate this person of color’s overt racism and allusions to violence. I being in the colorless category reconsidered my contribution, which was pretty much a first for me. The not-ready-for-primetime artiste nonetheless parted with a gracious “thank you”—for what exactly, I don’t know—and importuned us to follow him on Instagram. No, thank you.

Prior to this unexpected and unwanted underground cabaret, the highlight of my trip was two German tourists poring over a subway map. The fly in the ointment here is that a young woman was seated right below it. A lesson that I’ve learned the hard way is to never sit beneath a subway map. Why? Because people on unfamiliar terrain will very literally get in your face while they are trying to figure out where they are and where they want to go. This particular husband-and-wife team was at it for multiple stops. I can only hope they found their way.

Finally, in New York City subway cars nowadays, advertising isn’t quite what is was when my father rode the train five days a week from the Bronx to Manhattan’s mega-post office in the shadows of Penn Station. He never saw a car festooned with one advertiser’s ads and one advertiser’s ads only. In the good old days it was a hodgepodge of this, that, and the other thing. But it’s not unusual in the here and now to see one company—or one product or service—being pitched in a series of advertisements throughout an entire subway car. It’s called branding, I think. The only problem is that I frequently have no idea what the ads are selling. Today, I spied a sleeping passenger directly across from me and was startled to see the ad above him. I wondered if there was some kind of subliminal advertising at work. Burrow’s? Sleeping? Repose? I am left only to wonder. Rest easy…

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Life After Yu

As the dog days of summer wind down and time accelerates as never before, I will continue to report on mostly unimportant events and non-events leading up to my death. That's a riff, by the way, on my favorite title ever for a memoir: newsman Howard K. Smith's Events Leading Up to My Death.

Anyway, sometimes unhappy news comes when you least expect it or need it. My mailman for the past ten years—Yu—is moving on to bigger and better things. Well, a different route at least in a more prestigious area of apartment buildings. It'll probably be easier on his bad knees. Yu has been climbing up a lot of stairs in a lot of private homes these past ten years. Still, when he told me the news, I felt stunned, like I was losing an old friend. A known-quantity, dedicated mailman is a prize to be cherished. So, is there life after Yu? Only time will tell. And now for some more events and non-events of no particular importance:

No, these aren't the swallows returning to Capistrano. They are Canada Geese on flight from the Van Cortlandt Park flats in the Bronx. After defecating all over the green fields there, they are headed for another bathroom run someplace else.

There's nothing quite like a little Rose of Sharon with a singular flower on it. One that sprouted up from seed in a most rugged piece of earth.

And He thus sayeth, "Let there be another Auto Zone..."

I have an old friend who now comes to a full stop at every Stop sign. It's not that he wants to at long last comply with the minutia of the law. He's in his eighties and relishes making younger drivers angry. But I've heard about enough road rage cases to appreciate that being an old geezer is not sufficient protection from a wayward punch, tossed deadly object, or even a gunshot.

A friend and I were once acquainted with this fellow nicknamed "Bug." He was actually an annoying little weasel. But in his memory we regularly take pictures of small objects and designate them "Bug" things. This is Bug's easy chair.

In three months this tree will be festooned with Christmas lights.

How did these two gloves get here? What's their back story?

"And when the country was falling apart, Betsy Ross got it all sewed up!"

It's the George Washington. What would George Washington say? 

I have a new hobby. I take pictures of people taking selfies.

Get the stick...

Bug's bicycles...

Spotted these two tourists not taking selfies. An unsolicited word of advice in these crazy times: Why walk around with a target on your chest when you don't have to?

If this was a three-hour tour, these five passengers better pray that the weather doesn't start getting rough...

Is there a better place to meditate than a New York City subway car? Probably.

"A Beach Vacation WITHOUT AIRPORT SECURITY" the subway ad reads. And it's only a Lyft—or subway—ride away! Ocean beachfront in the borough of Queens and I've never been there and probably never will be. That ship has sailed. 

Mystery lady checking her smartphone. Why am I thinking about Billy Ocean?

Today was a 3-H day: hazy, hot, and humid...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

You Have to Be Smart

It’s been almost four decades since my older brother and an older partner purchased a small retail shop in the borough of Queens. It was in the Little Neck neighborhood on the heavily traveled Northern Boulevard. Called Pet Nosh, it exclusively sold pet foods and pet accessories—nothing with a pulse. Mom-and-pop stores peddling solely pet products were pretty uncommon in the late-1970s.

The fledgling entrepreneurs learned about the business for sale from a man named Demetrius, who operated a store of his own in Brooklyn. At the outset, Demetrius offered up a pearl of wisdom to the new kids on the block. “You have to be smart!” he said. In fact, success depended on it. Vis-à-vis the industry at-large, Demetrius envisioned a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The older generations, on the other hand, sniffed at the notion of selling pet food for a living. They viewed the effort as a frivolous misadventure on a dead-end street. It just didn’t quite seem the stuff with which American dreams were made.

Anyway, that was then and this is now. Demetrius, by the way, was spot-on about the pet trade blossoming into an economic dynamo with which to be reckoned. He, though, missed out on his share of the riches. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t take his own advice. Meanwhile, the older generations of the late-1970s have made acquaintance with the grim reaper and a page has been turned. The greenhorn businessmen of that simpler snapshot in time before the Internet and smartphones have now assumed the role of both wise and unwise elders. It’s the cycle of life.

While on the subject of cycles: In the early years of Pet Nosh, a commercial dog food called Cycle was a popular seller. If memory serves, the first sale for the excited new owners was a case of Cycle. There were four varieties: 1, 2, 3, and 4. Cycle 1 was for puppies; 2 for adult dogs; 3 for the overweight; and 4 for elderly canines. In the human equation the leap from two to four has been fast and furious.

So, what exactly made me think of Demetrius’s mantra—“You have to be smart!”—today? It initially came to mind when I read an article about the declining bee population and how man-made pollutants and pesticides having been relentlessly doing a number on them. From my catbird seat in the Bronx, I see remarkably fewer bees in my travels than I did in my youth. That’s the buzz. Personally, I think we need to bee smart in this instance and do what we can to save these vital insects. Unfortunately, we depend on politicians for matters of survival and being smart invariably takes a back seat to feathering their own nests and consolidating their hold on power.

Yet another be smart moment occurred this morning when a spied a shuttered business in the area. Actually, Demetrius’s counsel to young businessmen forty years ago assumes a higher meaning in the here and now. Exhibit A: a pizza place that opened its doors a couple of years ago. It took years to get the shop up and running. A colorful sign with the shop’s name and phone number first appeared. Then pizza ovens, a counter, and tables were set up. A “Coming Soon” sign eventually materialized, which was on the front door, as things turned out, for years! Then a “For Rent” sign replaced the “Coming Soon” sign. That lasted for several weeks before it, too, disappeared and—say what—the pizzeria opened. 

While the pizza was above average in my opinion, the place lasted only a year before somebody else took it over. The new owners changed both the name and the product. It was a deli-pizzeria combo now. But about halfway through its first year of operation, the pizza part was jettisoned. Apparently, though, the pizza flush wasn’t enough to save the place. Suffice it to say, a lot happened in a couple of short years. Two businesses in the same spot opened, closed, opened, and closed. Now more than ever in New York City, it’s difficult to survive in what is a dog-eat-dog business world with high rents, short leases, and oodles of competition. While it was true in 1979, it's truer still in 2018: You’ve got to be smart.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Talk Soup

It’s been a soupy summer thus far. And today is no exception. In appreciation of the present dog days, I will opine on this, that, and the other thing. For starters, I watched clips of the president ranting and raving at a pep rally yesterday. What came to mind—other than the incredibly obvious—was that more than a few people in attendance were offended when the Orange Man’s predecessor wore a tan suit at a press conference. He demeaned the presidency with this shocking sartorial selection, they—once upon a time—grumbled.

For some reason this same spectacle made me resurrect a waiter named Nestor and cat named Kyle. Nestor worked in a diner that I regularly patronized twenty-five years ago and Kyle was the place’s skulking mouser. On occasion the latter would wend his way up from the basement and saunter around the diner. Nestor warned my dinner companions and I to be leery of Kyle. “Cat not friend!” he said in his less-than-fluent English. Well, fast forward to the here and now and Nestor would be right in saying, “Russia not friend!”

A favorite short-order cook of mine in the very same establishment in which Nestor toiled was fond of saying—after his patented kitchen ramble of how so many things in society have gone awry—“It’s crazeeeee!” And indeed it is! The evidence is in and it’s overwhelming: We are unhinged—it would appear—and in a perpetual state of outrage. The unremitting frothing at the mouth knows no single political bent or particular demographic.

Facebook, for one, is a revealing laboratory. Nowadays, so many people are out to get scalps. “Shoot first and ask questions later” is their mantra. Mobs are lying in wait to annihilate those with whom they disagree politically. Nasty name-calling is the new norm. But mob outrage is hardly confined to partisan politics. Its wrath—to pick a couple of dissimilar instances—is cast upon adults who snare foul balls meant for little kids at the ballpark and, too, supercilious cheapskates who demean restaurant wait staff. With respect to the former, I’ve personally witnessed my fair share of Neanderthals at baseball games. Men and women who should have known better behaving like boors in usually futile attempts to procure orbs wrapped in cowhide. And while I found their behaviors annoying, even nauseating at times, I didn’t believe then or now that violence should come to them or their families. I didn’t believe then or now that their lives—and abilities to earn a living—should be disrupted in perpetuity. Apparently, that’s the posture of all-too–many angry Wizard of Oz-types on social media. Cloaked in the anonymity of their technological devices, it's disheartening to see them clamoring for the home addresses or pictures of those whom they believe deserve a taste of virtual justice. We're in a bad place right now...

Okay that’s enough of all that. It’s time to return to the more mundane—picayune annoyances and oddball observations. Recently, a woman across from me on the subway decided to paint her nails, taking most of the oxygen out of an already stuffy subway car. After exiting the train and the still lingering scent of nail polish, I spied Jolly Joe’s snack truck at Van Cortlandt Park. Free advice for Jolly Joe: If you can’t fit your name and the essence of who you are on one line, use a smaller font. The Scrabble board look is unbecoming of an ice cream man and makes a tacky first impression. Oh, and one last thing, I came upon a sneaker pawnshop in Manhattan. Yes, Virginia, the shop does purchase used sneakers, but probably not my Reeboks. I saw a pawned pair of sneakers selling for $850 on their website! These are strange times for sure.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Pigeon Has Landed

It's been a clammy week of high humidity and fast-changing weather. The sun is shining one minute and there's a drenching downpour the next. In a momentary peep at blue skies yesterday, I spied the Red Baron flying over the Bronx. Seconds later the skies turned ominously gray and both the Red Baron and sunlight were gone. 

And now for something completely different in these soupy times: I recently came upon the name Nadia Comăneci, a five-time Olympic gold medallist in gymnastics, in a virtual news headline. The article referred to some accomplishment of the Romanian gymnast in the 1976 Summer Olympics in Montreal. What I most remember from that snapshot in time was being on vacation in the cozy hamlet of Mattituck, Long Island and not watching the Olympics—even for a moment. There was, however, a man named Jimmy on the scene, who had to be indoors—and glued to the telly—on those warm summer nights in July to watch Comăneci strut her stuff. And so I’ll never forget her.

That summer, by the way, was America’s bicentennial—her two hundredth birthday if you are counting. Looking back now, I see a more serene place to call home where the majority of Americans put their country above their party—above their petty, partisan politics—and could just chill out for one brief shining moment at least. Of course there was no social media in those days—no forums to vent 24/7 and spew bile under the cloak of anonymity or, worse still, in the bright light of day. There were no cable channels offering never-ending parades of blithering talking heads with uncanny knacks of riling up the faithful night after night after night.

1976 was a presidential election year, too, with incumbent Republican Gerald Ford—benign, prone to physical mishaps, and the epitome of dullness—fighting off a fierce primary challenge from a charismatic true believer named Ronald Reagan, who was deemed too old by pundits to ever seek the presidency again. Ford’s opponent in the general election was Jimmy Carter, a pious peanut farmer with a toothy smile. It was a bitterly fought campaign with Carter narrowly defeating Ford.

Magnanimously, Jimmy Carter began his inaugural address on January 20, 1977 with this: “For myself and for our Nation, I want to thank my predecessor for all he has done to heal our land.” The unelected Ford had assumed the office after Richard Nixon’s resignation amidst the Watergate scandal. And it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Ford even designated Carter to deliver his eulogy when the grim reaper determined that the 38th President had fallen down his last flight of stairs and would never ever again bang his head while exiting an earthly helicopter.

While on the subject of that bicentennial year, I vividly recall election eve when Jimmy Carter was declared the winner. Watching a network broadcast—the only alternative in those days—the ecstatic Carter relations in Plains, Georgia were called upon to comment on their good fortune. Stewed to the mickey, brother Billy Carter made the greatest impression on the viewing audience as he proclaimed that the Carter warehouse would be on holiday the following day. A paid one, he added with a bleary-eyed snicker. My father, a staunch Republican, expressed dismay at Billy’s behavior and thought it a sad day for America. He believed that the incoming First Family would be an embarrassment and stain on American dignity. Suffice it to say, the bar has been lowered—removed entirely, I think—on that front today.

When Nadia Comăneci was mesmerizing Jimmy and that other Jimmy’s family was making news, it was a different world entirely. I turned fourteen in 1976 and began high school without a cell phone, Facebook page, or a single app. Somehow I survived and America did, too. I’m just happy I’m not fourteen now. The pigeon has landed.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Fat Lady Sang

I think I go through life now on the outside looking in—or the inside looking out—whatever? So, when she entered the train with the assistance of a cane this morning, I couldn’t help but notice her considerable heft. The fat lady sat directly across from me, which caused me to internally cringe—and not because she was overweight with no discernible chin, but because I knew now that I had to be on special guard. It was a subway ride game-changer for me. You know: I wouldn’t want to be perceived as staring at her in any way, shape, or form. And then there’s my hobby of taking pictures and videos in the land down under. I wouldn’t want the woman to think I was attempting to photograph her on the sly. I wouldn’t want her to think I was making sport of her.

Now, here’s the real kicker vis-à-vis my fellow passenger. As the train approached her stop—Lincoln Center—she began the not inconsiderable task of gathering up her things and rising from her seat. The latter wasn’t a walk in the park, I detected, as I stared mostly at nothing in particular. When she finally made it to her feet, she tapped me on my knee—my prosthetic one—with her cane. Startled, I wondered if the woman sensed something unusual in the echoes of that tap. She asked: “Are you all right? You look…” I look what? 

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Take a few deep breaths,” the concerned lady added as a parting salvo. “Breathe in and breathe out.” And off she went into the wild gray yonder. Yes, it was that kind of morning. As I watched her pulling her travel bag on wheels to an exit, I realized that despite her girth, she was quite comfortable in her ample skin. The woman—whose hair, by the way, was dyed a light shade of blue—had a New Age-y feel about her.

So, I accepted her advice and took a few deep breaths, which isn’t always a good thing in a cramped subway car in summertime. On the very same trip, I encountered a female panhandler whom I’ve seen on multiple occasions. She’s got a piercingly loud voice and never deviates from her script and its three key selling points: HIV positive, empty refrigerator, and infant daughter. Oh, and that she doesn’t get her check for a couple of weeks, which she also proclaimed a week ago. When I dropped two dollars into her large mayonnaise bottle-sized receptacle, she said, “Thank you, honey.” I prefer these sizable containers for money drops and salute her for utilizing the proper prop.

Another fellow on the train had nothing at all but his hand for the money exchange. His pitch, though, was especially poignant. “Do not be afraid of me” and “Do not judge me.” I wasn’t and didn’t. Lastly, there was this individual whom I’ve previously spied working the subway cars. She’s clearly mentally ill and takes the handout notion to a very literal level. The woman goes from person to person and sticks her hand out each time in their respective faces. Let’s just say that she doesn’t respect people’s spaces, which is bad for business. There are a lot of sorry souls on the streets and in the subways, too, which is why being on the outside looking in—or is it the inside looking out—has its benefits.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sex and the City

When I spied a city bus with a billboard on its front side—directly under the driver—for the Museum of Sex, it struck me as odd. When the very same advertisement appeared on bus after bus after bus, it struck me as odder still. You see, there was no further information to be gleaned from the ads about this mysterious museum. Where exactly it was located and what exactly could be found there was left to our imaginations. Of course, this is the Information Age we live in and the answers to those questions are readily accessible with a smartphone or computer. By the way, if you’re interested in discovering what all the fuss is about, the place—also known as MoSex—is located at 233 Fifth Avenue on the corner of East 27th Street.

I had in fact encountered subway promos for one and the same on recent train trips. But then came the Museum of Sex bus blitzkrieg—seemingly out of nowhere—with the billboards prominently positioned and seen by millions in what amounted to a traveling road show. I was naturally curious as to MoSex’s money source for this comprehensive advertising campaign. It had to cost the museum a pretty penny. Perhaps the establishment receives endowments from the rich and famous—endowed or otherwise—I don’t know.

Also, I couldn’t help but wonder how the billboards were playing with the populace at large and, too, Metropolitan Transport Authority (MTA) employees. After all, bus drivers were compelled to lord over three words and three words only: Museum of Sex. Lo and behold, local news stations reported on and answered my questions this morning. There was indeed a billboard controversy. Complaints about them were coming in fast and furious from the aforementioned bus drivers. Female drivers griped about harassing hoots and hollers from riders. Male drivers weren’t too happy, either, being in the crossfire. Putting that three-letter word on the front bumpers of buses on busy routes was destined to stir the pot of boorishness, which is quite a large melting one in New York City, and it didn’t disappoint.

The MTA actually took to heart what their employees had to say vis-à-vis the Museum of Sex billboards and promised to slowly but surely remove them. I can attest that the removal—in my neck of woods at least—has been immediate. They were on practically all the buses yesterday and not on any of them today.

An unrelated footnote here is that the MTA now has a policy of “gender neutral” announcements. No more “Ladies and Gentlemen” and that sort of exclusive thing. You are more likely to hear: “Hello, Everyone.” When I first heard that intro echoing in the subway bowels, it sounded rather awkward to me. But I didn’t know then that a new policy—not to offend someone who is neither a lady nor a gentleman—was in place. Had the MTA consulted with me beforehand, I would have recommended: “Ladies, Gentlemen, and the rest” rather than “Hello, Everyone.” It would have simultaneously accomplished its inclusive mission and paid homage to the first season opening credits of Gilligan’s Island.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tail of One Park

It’s a U-shaped group of benches with a nicely shaped evergreen tree as its centerpiece—one that is decorated with lights at Christmastime by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. The place is an island unto itself—set apart from the sprawling Van Cortlandt Park proper by the heavily trafficked W240th Street, or Van Cortlandt Park South, as it is known east of the El. This slice of earth is, nonetheless, parkland and has been officially dubbed “Van Cortlandt’s Tail.”

                       

The reason why I snap so many pictures of the El on Broadway, subway track workers festooned in neon yellow and orange, and assorted passing vehicles is simple. It’s the view from the Tail, my catbird’s seat to occasionally interesting, but mostly non-interesting daily occurrences and recurrences. It wasn’t a planned thing, but the Tail has become a frequent stopover for me—an ideal resting spot and refuel location during my errand and exercise runs. 

Granted, I’d rather be sitting on a bench gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean, the Hudson River, or even Lake Welsh. There was nothing quite like vacationing as a boy in Manasquan, New Jersey and watching the fishing vessels navigate the Manasquan Inlet. But, believe it or not, observing Number 1 subway trains entering and exiting their ports has a certain calming effect—on me at least. The earsplitting horn blowing and screeching and scratching metal against metal isn’t exactly music to my ears, but it’s oddly reassuring. Never fail: The Tail supplies its visitors with an unceasing show of urban repetition with a special surprise every so often. And why not?

Life is full of surprises. On the western border of the Tail is Broadway traffic, which adds further color to the place’s singular ambience. Passing fire trucks and ambulances with sirens sounding are regular sightings. It’s a “Rainy Night in Georgia” kind of thing, only with a not-so-distant “moanin’ of a train.” Simply put: It’s a pretty noisy spot. And with Van Cortlandt Park a popular attraction—especially in the warm climes—there are typically ice cream and hot dog trucks in the vicinity.

While repeatedly playing the most maddening jingle—one that concludes with a particularly annoying “Hello!”—Jolly Joe’s sells everything from frankfurters to smoothies to chewing gum. Meanwhile, Mister Softee—a storied favorite in these parts—is happily still peddling his product in vintage trucks from forty and fifty years ago. That’s the way it looks to me! Mister Softee’s jingle is renowned in the five boroughs. In fact, franchisees playing the thing too loud and for far too long have inspired a city ordinance. The jingle must go silent while trucks are idle. Funny, but I had a Mister Softee truck right outside my door this past week for twenty whole minutes. The jingle played non-stop on a loop the entire time. I don’t know what’s worse: leaf blowers in autumn or the Mister Softee jingle in summer—played over and over and over. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the familiar jingle resonating through the ether attracted business that otherwise wouldn’t have known Mister Softee was on the scene. And—unbeknownst to many patrons—the jingle actually has accompanying lyrics beginning with “The creamiest, dreamiest soft ice cream, you get from Mister Softee.” Sights and sounds are all around.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Embraced by the Light

I was “embraced by the light” at 18th Street yesterday morning in a Manhattan subway station. Soon after, I made my up to street level and the bright light of day. In the hazy sun and unpleasant heat and humidity of creation, I spied a “smoke shop” that gave me pause. “It’s not your grandfather’s cigar store anymore,” I said to no one in particular. “Vaporizer, Beer, Lotto, Cigars” are a far cry from my memory of “Optimo” in the old neighborhood. A rather large “Optimo Cigars” sign hung outside the place, which is why we locals—not so originally—called it Optimo. Really, though, it was just another “candy store” that—like its competitors—sold cigars as well. Nevertheless, the name distinguished it from Bill’s Friendly Spot (formerly Paula’s) and Joe’s (later Shital’s). Joe, by the way, was a notorious cheapskate who gave sour balls back to kids instead of change. Needless to say, Shital’s had an unfortunate moniker for a candy store on Main Street—or, in this instance, W231st Street in the Bronx.

Further wandering brought me past the “Merci Market,” which prompted me to say—again to no one in particular—“Lamb of God, You take away the sins of the world—have mercy on us!” I don’t exactly know why, but during Sunday Mass we would repeat that refrain followed by the grand finale: “Grant us peace!” And once the prayer was put to music, it became lodged in my brain for all eternity. A footnote: The “Lamb of God” entreaty was always appreciated because it signaled the end was near—of the Mass that is.

Finally in my travels, I resurrected the “Man-Lady”—and not for the first time. This decidedly unique personage owned and operated a neighborhood bicycle shop, “The Wheel,” in the 1960s and 1970s. Bicycle riding was commonplace back then—almost every kid in the old neighborhood had a bike. Suffice it to say, the Man-Lady was kept busy. The Wheel both sold and rented bicycles. In need of a repair—it was also the go-to place. I recall purchasing bicycle-tire tube patches there for my Stingray with its all-that-glitters-isn’t-gold banana seat.

Want a mental picture of the Man-Lady? Visualize a much more foreboding and considerably darker Pat. I hope you haven’t forgotten It’s Pat. New York City’s increasingly bicycle-friendly bells and whistles are what made me bring back to life this singular individual from my youth. Scattered all across the urban milieu now are bike racks. Lock up your bicycle with confidence, people. New York City is one of the safest big cities in the world!

A little background here: Upon The Wheel’s closure sometime in the late 1970s, I’d say, bicycle-specific shops were fast going the way of the woolly mammoth. But they’ve made a remarkable comeback in this era of snarling traffic congestion. I have little doubt the Man-Lady would be delighted at this turn of events—or, should I say, return of events.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)