Smartphone…Dumb Man

On Saturday afternoon when the Number 1 train pulled into the Van Cortlandt Park terminal—its last stop—I was alone in the rear car with two sleeping homeless men. They served as somnolent bookends—one on each side—for what would thereafter be the lead car on a return trip into Manhattan. Yesterday morning—Sunday—I entered the first car for the journey downtown. Lo and behold, I encountered a pair of sleepers with similar seating habits. They were not, however, the same two men I had shared space with a day earlier. In fact, one of them was not homeless at all.

This wasn’t exactly a Columbo deduction on my part. The guy had a guitar case alongside him, headphones in his ears, and a smartphone on his lap. From the looks of things he was recovering from a hard night of partying. Before the train even took off, the extraordinarily sound sleeper’s phone fell to the floor. The thumping sound didn’t affect his siesta one bit. I briefly considered approaching him and rousing him from his slumber. But his peculiar Muhammad Ali posture gave me pause. In the end, I decided to file away this moral dilemma under “Let sleeping drunks lie.”

Eventually, as the train wended its way into Manhattan, it got increasingly crowded. Numerous passengers glanced over at the sleeper in their midst—the one with the phone at his feet. People sat next to him and across from him. All remained silent. I kept a vigilant eye on the subject to see if and when he would regain consciousness. Would he experience that important moment of clarity? The young man stirred from time to time and even put down his dukes, but never once opened his eyes—at least while mine were fixed on him.

At some point he rejoined the living. I can't say if the woman I spied alerting him of his valuable possession in harm’s way—on the floor—nudged him awake or he awoke on his own. Nevertheless, I watched him react to the news with an exaggerated, frightened double take—right out of the Hollywood playbook—as he swooped up his phone and put it in his jacket pocket. Apparently, the guitar-toting subway rider didn’t regard that moment as a wake-up call. He promptly returned to the Land of Nod and continued his journey to nowhere—or South Ferry in this instance.

Perhaps the drowsy commuter would have been better off waking up to no smartphone and, too, no guitar. He would have at least learned a valuable life lesson. If his sleep requirements weren’t met when the train reached its last stop—South Ferry—and he headed uptown again, he might have found himself an underground crime statistic and learned that lesson after all. Maybe then he’d think twice about getting stupefied beyond the pale and riding the subway back and forth—and back and forth again—with belongings of value there for the taking. Subway conductors make regular announcements nowadays of the importance of being fully aware at all times of one's personal possessions. This weary traveler was Exhibit A of somebody being fully unaware. A guitar solo is in order.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Strangers in the Light

“Don’t talk to strangers!” Sound counsel imparted to me when I was young. However, the advice assumed a new and higher meaning in my adulthood. Case-in-point: I was sorely tested this past week when an elderly gentleman plopped down right beside me in a snippet of parkland known as Van Cortlandt’s Tail. The spot supplies bird’s eye views of Broadway traffic and the ever-busy elevated subway tracks above it. Please trust me when I say that this wandering oldster had a sea of empty benches from which to choose. It's no surprise then that I internally cringed at our close proximity. The geezer had violated my personal space and—up to that moment—the peaceful tranquility of the Tail. Of course, I knew full well what the codger was after—an audience of one to perform his one-man show.

Now, I’ve lent an ear to the lonely on many occasions, but have come to the conclusion that most people who approach strangers in the light for small talk aren’t remotely interested in the art of conversation. Rather, they want to hold court: rave about this, that, and the other thing—all of no interest to me. When I take a breather on a park bench, I am among the proud fraternity of men and women who don't want to speak with strangers. Why? Because talk is cheap—period and end of story. 

And now the rest of the story: I uncomfortably ignored this senior citizen for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity. As I prepared my getaway, he began rifling through some papers that he pulled out of a tattered tote bag. Happily, my silence proved golden. The old fellow who desperately wanted an ear to chew on got up before I could do the same. I felt kind of bad as I very literally said good-bye to him. But sometimes you just have to look out for Number One.

Remember: Mum's the word!

When the unwanted stranger came into my life, I was enjoying the vista and solitude before me.

What a difference a day made. Twenty-four little hours.

I distinctly recall when this McDonald's restaurant first opened in the 1970s. It was a big deal in the neighborhood. The place wasn't serving breakfast in those bygone days and closed during the nighttime hours. Nowadays it's a round-the-clock affair. Not too long ago in the wee small hours of the morning, a McDonald's employee got stabbed and killed in the parking lot. The local 50th Precinct, which is several yards away, responded with alacrity.

I initially thought that I was witnessing a hawk descending on its prey: an elderly woman in this instance. But it was only a pigeon making a beeline for a discarded piece of pizza crust.

One empty bench among a sea of empty benches in Van Cortlandt's Tail.

Recently, I've encountered these pay-as-you-go Lime bikes parked in the oddest places—sometimes for days.

The mysterious long and winding road of Riverdale. In need of a major facelift, the apartment building alongside it claims that it's city property. The city says it's not. Whose baby are you? Where do you come from?

They say the redheaded women are bright on Broadway.

Now that looks like a suspicious suitcase to me. 

Really, there's nothing finer than an old-fashioned diner, which are fading fast from the New York City landscape.

Pigeon life lesson: There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

Pigeon wondering if it pays to visit Ellis Island.

Pigeons contemplating their roots...

When I came upon this trendy children's wear shop in Manhattan's Tribeca neighborhood, I thought it sported a funnier name than Harvey. I figured Polarn, whomever he or she was, had probably been subject to a fair share of ridicule through the years. But it turned out not to be a person's name after all. It's a Swedish outfit and the moniker translates as "Buddy and the Little One."

I wish him all the best...

Gave proof through the night...

That our flag was still there...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remember with Advantages

It’s hard to believe! The main players in a real-life on a real-block sitcom dear to my heart are all gone. The height of popularity for this reality show—before there were reality shows—occurred in the late-1970s, a simpler and more colorful snapshot in time. While its audience was infinitesimal, it was nonetheless extremely enthusiastic. The protagonists were the genuine articles—real neighbors and real friends, too. But something made this family stand apart from the pack. Let’s just say that they were true originals—uniquely and entertainingly peculiar in their seemingly humdrum day-to-day existence.

If given the choice, I’d pass. I just wouldn’t want to live my life—as it previously unfolded—over again. On the other hand, if I could pick and choose certain moments from my more than half-century of living, I’d welcome a second go at them. I’d happily return to the summers of 1977 and 1978 when the aforementioned real-life sitcom played out before my teenage eyes—live, uncensored, and in magnificent color.

Those on the block who were acquainted with the first family very likely witnessed conduct that was made for television. For instance, the youngest son, Tony—in his twenties at the time—profanely ordering his septuagenarian grandmother, Nonna, to “get back in the house” was downright surreal. On occasion he would physically usher her away through the family garage. Key the laugh track. Tony was also known to punch—for no apparent reason—his rather affable granny in her rather fleshy arms. One summer afternoon he literally kicked her out of the house. “Out of this house until we find that goddamn cat!” Tony bellowed for all to hear. He had assigned blame to his grandmother for the family cat's escape into the mean streets of the Bronx. Fortunately, the cat was found unharmed—inside the house and under a stairwell the whole time. Nonna had been wrongfully accused! But the old woman never seemed to mind the rough and tumble and rolled with the punches, as it were, which made such spectacles more humorous than malicious. Granted, a lot of folks in the neighborhood didn’t see it that way. 

We dumbfounded observers of the family dubbed a particularly strange behavior of theirs “feet rubbing.” In retrospect it should have been called “toe rubbing.” One summer's eve, Tony performed a thorough toe rub while sitting on the top step of his front stoop. I hadn’t seen anything like it before and haven’t seen anything like it since. With a clean towel at his disposal, Tony ferociously rubbed between each and every toe to remove itchy fungus or whatever it was that settled down there. Periodically, he slapped the towel down on the ground, which sent airborne god knows what. Looking back, it almost certainly wasn’t wise to stand down wind of that undulating towel. But, again, I was enraptured in my favorite local sitcom and am thankful for having been a member of the studio audience as often as I was. A footnote, if you will: According to a relative and reliable witness, Tony utilized a sock and even his bedspread to perform indoor toe rubs whenever he got the itch.

Then there was the family patriarch, Uncle Nino, whose head was slightly askew, the result of an on-the-job accident decades earlier. The man had frizzy hair that frequently assumed a life of its own, with strands jutting out in every conceivable direction. He absolutely loved grated—Parmesan—cheese and sprinkled it on everything, even ice cream. Well, maybe not ice cream. Uncle Nino attached pieces of tin foil to the bottoms of the pull-string light switches throughout the house. You could more readily see them in the dark that way. He liberally used words that struck me as funny, too, like “aggravating.” Uncle Nino often chided his son to not “aggravate” the cat who, by the way, didn’t seem to have a name other than “cat.” He played opera records and liked “ridiculous” shows, not “stupid” ones. When Uncle Nino waved to people, it was as if he had a mechanical Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em arm.

Finally, there was the family matriarch, Aunt Bobbie, a good-natured, heavyset woman who watered down the Hi-C fruit drinks—half and half—and gave tours of the upstairs quarters, which included Tony’s bedroom, to everyone and anyone. “There’s Tony’s hockey poster,” she would say, pointing at it on the wall. “And this is where Tony keeps his underwear.” When invited to a wedding reception, Aunt Bobbie brought along an unsealed card and blank check. She had to ascertain what the spread was worth before filling in the particulars. If you looked closely enough, the contours of Aunt Bobbie’s “real arm” could be deciphered underneath her blubbery “fake arm.” Four decades have passed now. When I see such arms on others these many years later, I remember with advantages when I first discovered the real arm/fake arm phenomenon. And I am grateful for that and for the first family—Nona, Uncle Nino, Aunt Bobbie, and Tony—whose likes I will never see again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Pain and Gain

(Update: It's been twelve years this past August. That's three Spellman cycles if you're doing the arithmetic. I've been writing this blog longer than I thought...)

In August, it will be five years since I became—officially and forevermore—an amputee. My, my, my, how time flies. The sorry saga seems like only yesterday in one respect, but also an awfully long time ago.

I’m happy to report that the excruciating physical pain I knew for a spell is a distant memory. Fortunately, we have to be in the clutches of physical pain to appreciate its unyielding sway over our every move and every thought. When it’s gone, it’s gone. Mere recollections of what once was will not and cannot resurrect the genuine article. Our incredible recuperative powers won’t allow it. Occasionally, though, phantom pains in the night starkly remind me of what once was. These intermittent jolts stab hard into the ether—at a foot that’s no longer there. A relation once said to me, “That must make you feel good.” She honestly believed this unusual strain of pain in my missing body part would somehow make me feel whole again. She was wrong.

Adjusting to my new life and new perspective in these ensuing five years, I’ve learned quite a few things about myself and others, too. Some of what I’ve uncovered is significant, I suppose, but most of my discoveries have been rather trivial. That's life. When I was released from the hospital sans a portion of my right leg—and awaiting a prosthetic—I was inundated with reading materials concerning my new limb-challenged existence. Initially, I reasoned that losing an arm was obviously preferable to losing a leg. I thought then that being able to get up and go—when I wanted to and where I wanted to—trumped all else. At that time, there was little debate in my mind what amputation—if given this Hobson’s choice—I would select.

Fast forward five years and I’m of a completely different mindset. Once I received my new knee and acclimated to the hustle and bustle of everyday living, I saw that I was able to do just about everything I did before, albeit a lot slower and more awkwardly in most instances. And as a writer who uses his hands in his daily grind, what the heck was I thinking anyway? I also read many stories of upper-limb amputees and their travails. On a regular basis, they are confronted with many more trials than I am. The mere act of getting dressed with one arm is a layered affair, if you will. Eating. Shopping. Hammering a nail. The good news for all of us is that prosthetic technology is getting better and better. And I surmise that most of those who have lost part of an upper limb wouldn’t swap their disability for mine.