Life's Script

One of my favorite series from the past is The Fugitive starring David Janssen. Its premise: Dr. Richard Kimble, an innocent man, is convicted—with persuasive circumstantial evidence pointing to his guilt—of murdering his wife. His claim to having seen—on the night of the murder—a one-armed man leaving the scene of the crime could not be substantiated. Luckily for Kimble, “fate moved its huge hand,” derailing the train escorting him to death row. This astonishing stroke of good fortune facilitated his escape into the cold, cruel world. His abiding mission thereafter: Find the mysterious one-armed man before Lt. Philip Gerard, Kimble's tenacious policeman pursuer, found his fugitive from injustice.

And so it went—week after week after week for four seasons—with the existential, low-key Kimble encountering the good, bad, and ugly of humanity during his peripatetic and precarious life on the run. He toiled "at many jobs." The Fugitive was certainly trailblazing for 1960s television fare. I was a little too young to be a captive audience during its prime-time run—a toddler when it debuted in 1963 and just five years old when its popular finale—with a then record-shattering viewership—aired. For whatever reason, The Fugitive never appeared in syndication—in my neck of the woods at least—during the 1970s and 1980s, when we were inundated with reruns of everything from Bonanza to Batman to Barnaby Jones. No cable TV—with hundreds of channels to choose from—existed then. We selected our viewing pleasure from a maximum of ten or twelve tops.

In fact, I didn’t become acquainted with The Fugitive until it turned up on the A&E cable network in the 1990s. I subsequently purchased part of the series as it was being released—rather haphazardly and unreliably as things turned out—on VHS tapes. The saving grace of the tapes was the informal, reading-off-the-box introductions by the erudite Barry Morse, who played Lt. Gerard with—to use the actor’s own words—“hopefully a very convincing American accent.” I don’t exactly know what an American accent is, but I’d say humble Barry masterfully pulled it off.

One of my favorite Barry Morse-intro sound bites involved his take on actor Bill Raisch, who periodically played the one-armed man, Fred Johnson, in the series. Morse said at one point in his delightful British intonation—not the manufactured American one—“He really was a one-armed man!” Raisch had lost the genuine article during World War II and had fashioned a career as a dancer and stuntman. Acting, though—with actual lines to memorize and recite—apparently made him a nervous wreck.

For some reason, I distinctly remember snippets of an episode that featured Raisch. He had a lady friend in the story who somehow and somewhere—that I don’t recall—encountered Kimble. Dr. Kimble, that is, who saved her life. A supreme coincidence, for sure, but the man, fugitive or free, was a doctor. Anyway, when she mentioned this doctor to Fred Johnson, the one-armed man, he replied in rapid-fire: “Doctor…what doctor…what did he look like?” The Bill Raisch—one-armed man—life lesson is self-evident: It’s how we read its scripts that count. The writers very likely wanted the dialogue read as: “Doctor? What doctor? What did he look like?” Three sentences instead of one. Think about it...

Memorial Day Musings

It’s time to hit the pause button on this Memorial Day and reflect on the sacrifice. Take a good look around. It isn’t very pretty. We’ve got a wannabe despot in the Oval Office who is—to employ a favorite expression of an elderly relative of mine—not right in the head. And that’s a lethal combo! On the other side of the spectrum, things aren’t exactly rosy. This past week the much touted live—word for word—remakes of classic episodes of All in the Family and The Jeffersons aired. ABC in 2019, not CBS in 1975, bleeped out the “N” word uttered by George Jefferson. Naturally, there was much talk about the iconic status of the two shows—how they were at once trailblazing and wouldn’t pass muster today. That is, in today’s politically correct, ridiculously over-sensitive climate. When pioneering satire is too hot for television—where it thrived for one brief shining moment forty years ago—something invaluable has been lost. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I say: Let freedom ring from unsafe spaces everywhere. 

The way things are going right now, I think we should temporarily replace our regal national bird—the eagle—with the pigeon.

On a lighter note: While out and about these days, I patronize more bathrooms than ever before. That’s the way it goes, I guess. I certainly have less of a desire to hold it in until I’m home sweet home. And in many cases that's not an alternative. But public restrooms in New York City are not exactly on every street corner. My visits to bathrooms—public and private—have always been Number 1-related, bladder-emptying endeavors. 

That is, until yesterday, when I broke new ground. Throwing caution to the wind in an effort to make the remainder of my journey more pleasant, I checked the Number 2 box for the first time. I selected a restroom in a nice part of town—one that I frequently call upon. It is both considerable in size and well maintained. I view the experience as a new lease on life. Because the first time is always the hardest. The above photo, by the way, is of a Number 2 train.

Some fashion trends perplex me: Torn jeans at the knee, untied sneakers, and women's bedroom slippers as popular menswear.

Subway advertisements in this day and age take up an entire car. The same product or service is promoted. Most of the time I haven't a clue what the product or service is. It's tough getting old.

When planting trees require a mammoth crane, you know you are in a fancy part of town. My preferred bathroom is a few blocks away.

This past week, I watched a British mini-series on Amazon Prime called Fearless. As I waded through the first episode of six in total, it dawned on me that I had already seen it. Straightaway, I got the sinking sensation that I didn’t like it on the first go-round. But caught between the proverbial rock and hard place, I had to see it through to an ending, which I wished had come sooner rather than later. 

Now, I consider myself a huge fan of British mysteries, legal, and crime shows. In fact I give them an "A." I recently watched in very short order every episode of both Vera and Inspector Lynley. I’m currently plowing through a series, Wycliffe, from the 1990s. But back to Fearless and the one glaring thing that—in my opinion—the Brits often get wrong. It’s their portrayal of Americans as typically obnoxious, intolerant, and—in many instances—downright evil. I’ll readily concede that there is a fair share of obnoxious, intolerant, and downright evil Yanks in plain view.  But come on. In Fearless, the predictably malevolent American, a shadowy intelligence operative, bloodlessly says at one point: “America, the country that everybody hates but everybody wants to live in.” More than a little heavy-handed, I'd say. 

Whoever came up with this advertising slogan for a tour-boat slip was obviously a Marv Albert fan. One final word on British TV: I was thrilled a while back to come across the legal series, Kavanagh, Q.C., starring the always-exceptional John Thaw. I had watched it on VHS tapes many years ago. With the exception of one episode, I remembered thoroughly enjoying the series. It was the episode where Kavanagh visited America—Florida to be exact. Not wanting to see a great show go completely off the rails and totally out of character again, I chose to skip a viewing in the here and now. The Florida of the 1990s was depicted as George Wallace’s "Jim Crow" Alabama. Lacking any subtlety at all, its good-old-boy governor was named "Cotton."

There once was a diner called "Blue Sky" and a waiter we all called "Alou-ishes." Sadly, some things just can't exist in New York City anymore.

Oh, canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see.

Oil, electric cables, and water don't mix.

But Con Edison steam mixes with everything and in all seasons.

Striking the pose on a subway platform makes for a good picture...

But it behooves one and all to...

A weekend ago, local trains weren't running and buses took their place. What's in a name anyway? In a nearby park, I've encountered this woman with a dog named "William" on a few occasions.  Yes, "William." Judgmental me would call her "WT," which I think is a sociological term, or is it an urban dictionary definition? Anyway, she always appeared angry at the world and was chain-smoking. The lady looked, too, like she'd been through life's ringer, which she no doubt was. Well, one day, I overheard her saying to a female companion, "After the first of the year, I'm out of this state for good!" I don't exactly know what New York State did to her, but this gal turned out not to be a woman of her word. For I both saw and heard her this past week. And it's well after the first of the year! Complaining as is her wont, she said, "Who does he think was the bitch who traveled six hundred miles back and forth while he was in prison?" To be continued...

Times have certainly changed. I remember patronizing a place as a kid called Sanitary Barber Shop. An old guy named William—a better name for a barber than a dog—cut hair there.

Stand alone houses in New York City—your days are numbered. Let's put a building there—why not?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

It’s a Hard Road

My ninety-eight-year-old aunt informed me this past Saturday that it was an anniversary. May 18th was the day that she—and my paternal grandmother—first set foot on American soil. The pair arrived in New York City by boat on Friday May 18, 1928—ninety-one years ago—but didn’t pass through Ellis Island. My aunt was seven at the time, spoke only her native Italian, and was promptly enrolled in the public school system. No special accommodations were made for her and the government policy—federal, state, and local—was an old-fashioned notion called assimilation.

Already in America—which is why the Ellis Island stopover was unnecessary—my paternal grandfather welcomed his wife and daughter. He had originally immigrated to the United States with his father at the turn of the twentieth century. A mere boy at the time, he worked, worked, and worked into his young adulthood. All of his wages, though, were handed over to the family patriarch, who supplied him with an allowance.

Not surprisingly, my grandfather eventually sought control of his own destiny, which included keeping his earnings and spending—and saving—it as he saw fit. But the old-world Italian gentleman—my great-grandfather—refused to bow to the new world order. Rather impulsively, my grandfather decided to make a break from his domineering father and return to his native Italy. Fate wasn’t too kind to him on this score, because he was soon after drafted into the Italian army and subsequently found himself in a German prisoner-of-war for an extended period of time during World War I—the war to end all wars. After his release, he spent months convalescing in a German hospital. Back home in the picturesque rocky mountain town of Castelmezzano, Italy—which had no electricity and indoor plumbing at the time—my grandfather married my grandmother and they had a daughter. In the mid-1920s he returned to the green fields of America, but in a roundabout way via another country. Strict immigration quotas were in place at the time. In those days, comings and goings were a lot more complicated than over-staying one’s visa.

Considering the lives that so many people led in those bygone days—so foreign to me—never ceases to amaze. For starters: Traveling to a strange country on the other side of the world—and not fluent in the native tongue—with virtually no possessions. Then taking on multiple jobs to make a living and hopefully save a little. Until refrigeration cast his business asunder, my grandfather toiled for decades as an iceman. Most of his clients were in old walk-up apartment buildings in Manhattan. Although he resided in the neighboring borough of Brooklyn, visualize Ralph Kramden’s apartment and icebox. I remember a neighbor—peculiarly from my youthful perspective in the 1970s—referring to his refrigerator as an “icebox.”

Anyway, one thought leads to another here. I recently spied this food cart on a certain corner of a stretch of road that includes multiple eateries. I thought it an odd spot for setting up shop. I surmised, too, that area opposition would materialize. Sure enough, a local newspaper featured an article about the capitalist on wheels, with various neighbors complaining that it was simultaneously unsightly and would negatively impact on nearby businesses that ranged from pricey restaurants to pizza parlors to Dunkin’ Donuts (and a Starbucks, too). The no doubt hard-working immigrant proprietor of the food cart—who said that he had all the necessary permits to be where he was stationed—cried racism. What else is new? It would seem that’s part of the contemporary playbook. My grandparents worked from a different one. Perhaps some people just don’t like the sight and smell of a food cart in their little corner of the world. And perhaps the immigrant entrepreneur just wants to make an honest buck. Often it’s as simple and as complicated as that.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Anyone Carrying a Gun...

As the leaves turn an increasingly vibrant green—in anticipation of the summer doldrums—I cannot help but revisit the past. A past chock-full of utterances by a diverse cast of characters, many of whom are no longer among the living. I’ve included a montage of recent city images with these various expressions that don’t in the least correspond with their meanings, settings, or unique stations in urban lore. Each one of these pronouncements has left an indelible mark on this writer. Obscure and unimportant as they may appear to you, they were repeated over and over—once upon a time—by yours truly and a select few in my life circle. Such remarks, admonitions, and queries celebrate moments in time, bring one back to places that are no more, and venerate the forgotten. Insignificant as the indiscriminate words to follow may seem, they nonetheless live on…right here. Each and every articulation has an absolutely unique, if inconsequential, story to tell.

Anyone carrying a gun, come to the front desk please. Believe it or not when I served on jury duty at the Bronx County Courthouse, there were no metal detectors or security guards at its various entrances. During jury-duty orientation, the above statement was uttered and never failed to get a round of chuckles from perspective jurors. I can assure you that both the times and the orientation have changed.  

The law does not require your job to pay you! And the hits just kept on coming during jury-duty orientation.

That's the cheese! Some forty years ago a rather peculiar fellow complained to George, proprietor of Sam's Pizza, that his slice was burnt. He wanted another one. The request angered George who claimed that the brown hue—the so-called burn—was the natural color of properly cooked mozzarella. Despite being in the right, George gave the pain-in-the neck patron what he desired. 

Take it away! This is what Pat Mitchell—longtime owner of Pat Mitchell's Irish Food Center in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx—exclaimed after completed transactions.

Three papers...um...eh...dollar-five. Pat's brother, Mike, once verbally tallied up a purchase of three Sunday Daily News papers. They were thirty-five cents at the time. My younger brother and I took note and have never forgotten that experience. It's called the Oral Tradition.

You see that bulge in the wall...it's gonna come down some time. One of the strangest and scariest former neighbors—nicknamed "Mr. Fence"—said this about a certain wall near a certain avenue. The man may have been a frightening screwball, but he was right on the mark in this instance.

He hardly said a word at the dinner table. A family lived next-door to Mr. Fence, including a son who was dubbed in those days "retarded." Elderly mother and middle-aged son used to go out shopping every evening at the same time. The latter—overheard—said the above of his father, who evidently wasn't well at the time and not saying much.

I'm having one of the boys come tomorrow morning...but...um...there might be enough for two. There was this unusual doctor in the old neighborhood—a PhD, the only one of his kind—who also happened to have a rare lawn to cut. The above sentiment was uttered in a pre-Caller ID funny phone call. You had to be there to appreciate it.

You done me dirt last week! The very same doctor told my friend Johnny—who had neglected to tell the PhD about running over his electric lawnmower cord the previous week—that he had been wronged. An important life lesson about forthrightness ensued. 

You're as helpless as a rubber stick. A step-father told his spanking new step-son this. Never heard that one again.

Who is it? Living on the top floor of a three-family home regularly necessitated shouting down from atop a staircase to a bell-ringer. A UPS driver named Alex memorably replied, "U...P...S!"

Showers! Remember freshman year in high school? The thought of taking a communal shower after gym class was pretty horrifying. Every now and then, Mr. C, the the Phys Ed teacher, would bellow after class—in the bowels of the malodorous locker room—that dreadful word. Gym teachers obviously derived pleasure from torturing young boys. For I don't recall any shower clarion calls—when we were equally rank—in junior and senior years.

One...two...three...FOUR! Every exercise we did in Phys Ed seemed to be four-count. Mr. C would do the counting and cry an accentuated FOUR when our warm-up exercises were mercifully at an end.

That's eeewie! A trigonometry teacher from that same high school spoke with a pronounced lisp and proclaimed that a certain clamor of thunder—accompanied by a sizzling bolt of lightning—was just that.

Do you want me to tell you out the window! In search of her oldest son—calling his name out a back window—a certain neighbor didn't appreciate his response upon being located. "What?" he cried out.

She worships my husband. A young woman who never knew her father hooked up with a guy who had one among the living. This is how the wife of the extant father described the young woman's relationship with her spouse.

I don't mind the soft ball...but I don't want the goddamn hard ball! I'll call him Padre Pio and he spoke with a thick Italian accent. In those days of yore, we youths played with all kinds of balls in our connected concrete backyards. Pio made it plain what he deemed acceptable and what was not. Not that it mattered to us.

Hey, boys, get out of here. You no belong here. Go in your own place. The old immigrants from back in the day were very territorial and protective of their properties. Same communal concrete backyard as previously mentioned but a different neighbor. Like Padre Pio, though, she did not fully appreciate the good old days when kids were kids and spent much of their free time in the Great Outdoors.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Yesterday Once More

Recently, a man pulled an ax out from his nefarious bag of tricks and attempted to attack a fellow subway rider. It occurred in the vicinity of Lincoln Center on the Number 1 train, which is considered one of the safer lines and the one I frequently patronize. Fortunately, in this instance, the attacker was taken down—before any harm was done—by a couple of good-Samaritan passengers. They exist, too, I’m happy to report.

The aggressor—a mentally unstable individual—is a commonplace sighting in the bowels of the New York City subway system. Previously, I've discussed my “Charles Manson Rule” therein, which I apply whenever I sense potential violence afoot. That is, I make like a tree and leave. I move on to a hopefully less dangerous and stressful subway car—often on a different train altogether. The reality, though, is that this rule of mine is not foolproof. Sometimes, an unhinged straphanger acts with such alacrity that there is no time for a change of geography.

Happily, I didn’t encounter any hatchet-wielding persons in my travels yesterday. However, as I navigated the underground, I was ever-vigilant of dangers of all kinds from deranged and non-deranged New Yorkers and visitors alike. Ambling about with a prosthetic knee adds a degree of instability that I cannot afford to take lightly on crowded and non-crowded moving trains and narrow platforms.

Let me just begin by saying that today, Mother's Day, is a polar opposite weather day from yesterday...

Okay, can you see the Number 1 train's conductor pointing at the zebra board?

I actually had a "Point Me in the Direction of Albuquerque" moment yesterday on this very platform. That's a reference, by the way, to an episode of The Partridge Family called "Road Song," which featured a young female runaway and the accompanying song, "Point Me in the Direction of Albuquerque," sung by David Cassidy. A teenage girl or maybe a little older—who didn't appear homeless and was a close talker—approached me and asked for a couple of dollars. She needed to get someplace. After I gave her the money, The Partridge Family possibility dawned on me. Point me in the direction of Franklin Street...

Dangers—like unintentional hip-checks onto the subway tracks from oblivious smartphone-engrossed passengers—cannot be taken lightly.

Forget about a leisurely stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge when there's a walk-a-thon. Forget about one when there isn't.

This is a statue of Ben Franklin in the environs of City Hall. Every time I see a statue of one of our Founders in the big city, I wonder what little people are trying to take it down. 

Aside from peddling moon shakes, what, pray tell, is this smoothie-seller advocating?

In the vicinity of Wall Street, this is now...

And this was then. When I was a boy, there was a Loft's candy store in the neighborhood. Solid chocolate crosses at Eastertime were, as I recall, a taste sensation.

Suddenly, and without fair warning, it's bubble tea time...

It's a little early in the season, so I can't say for certain where this van was headed. Albuquerque, perhaps?

One brief shining moment: Spring in Battery Park...

Lady Liberty and industry never looked better.

I've seen what it does to grass, so I'm a believer.

On reflection, I'm throwing in with science every time...

I was in City Hall Park and then at One World Trade Center yesterday. I couldn't help but think of a former mayor in the news. A man whom I voted for multiple times and whom I thought was right for the time. Justifiably, he became "America's Mayor" for a spell. Now, sadly, he's a poster boy for somebody on the wrong meds. Very sad!

Come on, you're too young to be plugging your ears every time a train arrives.

And so my journey ends—on Number 1 and thinking about Number 2.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)