The Awakening

I was on my way home and riding in the last car of a Number 1 train yesterday afternoon. As the train neared the Bronx, only a handful of riders remained. One man had been sound asleep in the rear of the car for quite some time. I couldn’t say when he got on the train. It could have been before me or after me. Anyway, this fellow—who was more or less well dressed and groomed—awoke from the Land of Nod at 191st Street. By then there were just three of us.

“What train is this?” the man barked. I told him. “How did I get on the Number 1 train?” he replied with palpable anger in his tone. The guy then wanted to know the next stop and the time, too. “Dyckman Street,” I said, which didn’t mean a thing to him. Once there, he partially stepped out onto the platform—keeping one foot inside the train—and dazedly gazed ahead, contemplating his next move and who to blame for his predicament. I just didn’t want it to be me.

Not surprisingly, the pissed-off passenger wondered how he could get the downtown train. When I informed him of his two options, he didn’t appear to appreciate either. Exit at one of the next six stops—on the now outdoors El—go down to the street, cross it, climb back up another flight of stairs, and pay for the privilege. Or take the train you’re on for seven stops to the Van Cortlandt Park terminal and effortlessly walk across the platform to the other side—just several feet—hooking up with the downtown train free of charge.

I was alone with this increasingly incensed man—on the other side of the universe as far as he was concerned—for three stops. Each time he stepped outside—impatiently peering down the platform with one foot always in the doorway. Angrier and angrier he became before storming off at 225th Street. The guy could have stuck it out—for five or so more minutes—but I can’t say that I wasn’t happy to see him go. From this experience, I hope he learned a valuable life lesson: All roads don’t lead home.

Who was the Somnolent Stranger, anyway?

Bleary eyes can take one to the strangest places.

In other news: It's summertime. I had previously vowed to cut back on pizza toppings for blood-pressure reasons. But since mine is pretty good, I'm throwing caution to the wind and living dangerously.

For those, like me, who don't have access to a barbecue grill, I highly recommend a hot dog roller. I hadn't enjoyed a good wiener at home in years. But the roller definitely kicked the franks up a notch, bringing me back—for one brief shining moment at least—to the ballpark concession stand hot dogs of my youth.

This isn't my plate. I don't put ketchup on home fries. The diner patron here is on blood-pressure meds and a medley of others. But I suppose that's what they are for.

Meanwhile, back at the Democratic presidential primary debates. Really, Joe Biden was a heartbeat away from the presidency for eight years. Let's not try to make him a villain now. Sorry, Kamala, but that prepared ambush was a bit much in my opinion. By the way: How are the T-shirt sales?

Craigslist in the bright light of day.

One picture is worth a thousand words...

It was a hot afternoon, next-to-last day in June and the sun was a demon. Better to be among the 400 participants in the annual New York City Jet Ski Invasion.

I can only assume that the Angry Man in a Strange Land ended up on this side. Hope he didn't try to cross the tracks.

Help, I need somebody. Just don't shoot the messenger.

The curious Lime bikes turn up in the oddest places and in the oddest positions.

My father was an Esso, later Exxon, gas man. "Put a tiger in your tank" was the company slogan back in the day.

Spring was quite rainy and pretty cool in these parts.

So, it's kind of hard to believe that the Fourth of July is this week.

I can appreciate why a subway conductor might want to flip the bird in lieu of a pedestrian point at a ubiquitous zebra board, which indicates that the train is properly aligned in a station. On the Number 1 train, he or she has to point at the thing thirty-seven times per trip. In the dark and muggy recesses of the underground during summertime, that's a lot of finger-pointing. 

New York City's official bird is a bird for all seasons.

Hey there, Mystery Man, your train is arriving. Happy trails!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Isn't It True...

Recently, Amazon Prime Video added to its eclectic streaming selection the first five seasons—of a total of nine—of Perry Mason starring the incomparable Raymond Burr. What’s remarkable to me is how well the series holds up. After all, the show debuted in 1957, sixty-two years ago, with thirty-nine episodes airing in the first season. That’s a fair share of hour-long programs to write, film, and edit in one year. The network television shows of today churn out a mere twenty to twenty-six episodes per year.

There’s a film noir quality to Perry Mason that somehow stands the test of time—menace, mystery, and avarice unfolding in stark black-and-white. The show’s formulaic in many instances, but so what? It supplies a unique portal into 1950s America and Los Angeles in particular, which appeared considerably less congested and frenzied back then, even with the assembly line of dead bodies that were integral to the stories. There, too, were shapely blondes and brunettes galore—some guilty as sin and others as pure as the driven snow. Mason, of course, represented the comely innocents.

It’s a welcome change of pace to watch a gritty black-and-white series from yesteryear with no car chases, shootouts, or fist fights. Perry Mason struts his stuff in the courtroom, not the barroom. Gumshoe Paul Drake is a detective from the old school who records his shoe-leather findings in a small offline notepad.

There was an incredible amount of cigarette smoking in the various scenes—everywhere and anywhere the characters roamed. From a contemporary catbird seat, it’s quite eye-opening to see people lighting up in hospital corridors, elevators, and crowded restaurants. A rather gross and very unhealthy spectacle, I’d say. But that was then—before the Surgeon General’s report—and this is now. So, as I carry on among the longest days of the year 2019, I’m thinking of Perry Mason, the world he knew, and the vastly different one I know.  

The longest days can only mean one thing—summertime. And so begins the countdown to Christmas and the shortest days.

This is the Van Cortlandt Park Stadium grandstand with its smokestacks on each end. It was a "New Deal" Works Progress Administration (WPA) project and opened in 1939. By the way, three of the Perry Mason regulars—Ray Collins, William Talman, and William Hopper—died in real life of smoking-related illnesses. Talman, who played ill-fated District Attorney Hamilton Burger—vanquished by Mason time and again—recorded a then unprecedented anti-smoking ad as he was dying of lung cancer in 1968.

Let there be light. I went to high school for four years in an overly crowded "special bus," which was anything but special. The school paid New York City for the privilege of shuttling us to and fro in city buses with city bus drivers. It was against the law—by the late 1970s—to smoke on mass transit, but many of my peers did anyway. The drivers rarely, if ever, did anything about it.

Packed like the proverbial sardines in a can on our daily rides, you can well imagine what we smelled like upon exiting the buses. What a way to start and end each school day—clothes, skin, and hair reeking of second-hand cigarette smoke. Take a deep breath now.

Not quite Niagra Falls, this is the Van Cortlandt Lake waterfall, which guides its ever-flowing waters into the city's serpentine sewer system. It was active long before Perry Mason first aired and shows no signs of running on empty. 

There's definitely more stuff to throwaway in the here and now. The modern-day Perry Mason and Della Street would probably be having Starbucks, Shake Shack, and Eggslut—with lots of plastic cups, containers, and utensils—delivered to the office.

But at least there wouldn't be all that smoke wafting through the office! It seems very strange to me now, but it wasn't too long ago in the scheme of things that smoking was permitted in New York City eateries. I remember my favorite diner—as late as the mid-1990s—catering to a cast of smokers, including Seymour, a private taxi driver, who, if memory serves, died of lung cancer.

A squirrel's existence has remained largely unchanged.

Fewer wide-open spaces in which to roam but more discarded foodstuffs in which to forage.

While Perry Mason frequently did pro bono work for those in trouble and lacking financial resources, rarely were his clients completely down-and-out.

This sign—posted it would seem during the Perry Mason run—is at the Van Cortlandt Park subway terminal. It's for employees in need of emergency eye wash. If you can read the sign, you probably don't need it.

"Love is all around" New York City at the moment... 

"No need to fake it."

"You can have the town, why don't you take it."

During Perry Mason's nine-year run, there were no signs like this advertising the show in New York City's subway system.

In Perry Mason parlance, let's call it "The Case of the Snoozing Subway Rider." Came upon a news story this morning of a sleeping man—sprawled out in a subway car—who was robbed. Caught on camera, naturally, the thief is seen cutting out a pocket of the dog-tired victim's pants and making off with his cell phone and credit cards.

Speaking of dog-tired... 

One last subway tale from a couple of days ago: "The Case of the Splenetic Straphanger." An angry man attacked a transit employee in the wee small hours of the morning. Seems the guy completely lost it when he discovered that the Number 1 train was not running due to track work. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Other People and Other Thoughts

During my wanderings on this agreeable June morning, I encountered a USPS Priority Mail sticker on a Broadway El pillar. It was an interesting offshoot of graffiti, I thought. Soon after that, I came upon a woman who reminded me of someone from yesteryear. And one thought led to another. Yes, that dim bulb with the narrowest of worldviews. Once upon a time that ghost from the past said to me, “You think things are funny that other people don’t!” She didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I took it as one. The gal also claimed that she never saw me laugh. Being the gentleman that I am, I didn’t tell her the obvious reason: She never said or did anything that—even remotely—made me crack a smile. One clarification: The lady said and did a few things that were unintentionally funny—but, then, I think things are funny that other people don’t.

Speaking of funny—or a bit bizarre—I recently completed an online application for my new GP. A predictable question inquired as to my gender: “Male, Female, or Don’t Know.” Why did Christopher Walken pop into my head? I don’t know.

Further, during my daily rounds, I caught a glimpse of a woman that I’ve seen before. Well, at least I think it’s a woman. She dresses in the full burka, even in unbearable heat and humidity as I recall from last summer. Now, I do know that we live in a ridiculously politically correct climate with the ever-vigilant thought police waiting to pounce and pronounce one a bad boy or bad girl. But here’s my take on what it means to be an American nowadays. Remember the oft-used expression: “It’s a free country.” For arguments sake, let’s assume that it still is. My responsibility as an American citizen in a pluralistic society is to live and let live. If an individual wants to amble around—in the twenty-first century—looking like a cross between the Ghost of Christmas Future and the Adventures of Superman’s “Man in the Lead Mask,” so be it. As a little kid, they both gave me the creeps. So, despite the visual being invariably unsettling to me, I quietly pass by—respecting that person’s right to think and dress as he or she sees fit.

Some forty years ago, an elderly Italian man from the old neighborhood told my older brother—who was sporting a bushy beard and somewhat long hair at the time—that he looked like “a damn fool.” The octogenarian paesano didn’t quite abide by the “live and let live” concept. President Lyndon Johnson said in his 1965 inaugural address: “Freedom asks more than it gives.” True-dat. Protecting the rights of all citizens is the role of government, not policing their thoughts or tampering with their funny bones. Many on the right and the left have, seemingly, lost sight of the American Way.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Looking Through the Eyes of Me

Earlier today, I encountered a woman in a wheelchair. I watched her as she opened a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and tossed both a plastic wrapper and spent match on the sidewalk. The classy lady then sped away—imagine Chief Ironside in a hurry—with a cancer stick dangling very unappealingly from her mouth. A short while later, I came upon a curbside litter hodgepodge, which was clearly tossed from a parked car. Nowadays, too many inconsiderate people to count do that kind of thing. Is it such an inconvenience to find a nearby trashcan or, god forbid, take the stuff home and put it in the garbage? I’m just happy that Chief Iron Eyes Cody hasn’t traded his canoe in for an electric bicycle. Were he riding around New York City in 2019, he’d encounter a lot of litter in a lot of places.

Yes, I'm aware that litterbugs are nothing new. The 1970s, which I so fondly remember, is considered New York City's dirtiest decade. Sanitation services are better than ever around these parts. But it's the throwaway world that we live in now that's especially disturbing. Plastic cups, containers, and bags are everywhere. There are more litter cans around than ever before, but—courtesy of the people who don't throw their wastes on the sidewalk—they always seem to be at full capacity and beyond.

There's still plenty for the contemporary Iron Eyes Cody to spy and tear up about.

From what I've read, some New Yorkers believe that this brand of advertising is a form of litter. I must say that it doesn't exactly enhance the visual New York Harbor experience. 

That's Ellis Island, by the way, in the backdrop of a movie promotion for Pets 2.

Now this is a more fitting and pleasing image.

What would Lady Liberty have to say about this hullabaloo? If she only had a brain...

After a several-week unexplained hiatus, a more compact Nathan's hot dog stand returned to its familiar spot. It's the little things in life that bring the most joy.

I call this particular bush: Broadway Rose. The name is in memory of none other than Broadway Rose, the infamous panhandler. This is from her Wikipedia page: “By the late 1930s, she was to be found patrolling areas of the Broadway Theater District (particularly the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street). Dressed in a disheveled manner, she would solicit money from individuals, particularly those with fame. She had become so skilled in her use of language that most performers gave her something. If refused, she would resort to threats, or use foul language if rebuffed. Apparently some people would tip her just to keep her away. Others considered her a good-luck charm, and looked for the opportunity to see her almost every night.”

Not too far from the Broadway Rose bush was this resting mallard on the shores of the Van Cortlandt Park lake, which is a lot cleaner today than when I was a youth. Despite the floating debris I spied in New York Harbor this past weekend, it, too, is so much cleaner in the here and now than in the past. The conclusive evidence: Humpback whales have been luxuriating in its fair waters. So, some good news for a change.

A busy subway station on Number 1 line is closed for the entire year due to elevator replacement. A local McDonald's has been more-or-less demolished, including new underground plumbing, and is being rebuilt in a matter of months. It is expected to reopen this summer.

It's always reassuring to know that the New York City subway system employs the most advanced technology.

Technology is not at issue here: Bird's the word always at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal.

Why do I never tire of taking pictures in the underground? Because you never know how they are going to turn out. You also never know if you are going to get socked on the head while in the process.

When in an underground station or riding through the dark recesses of a tunnel, you lose a sense of time and place. You never know what the world is going to be like when you emerge from the darkness.

This is especially true with respect to weather. I've left blue skies and sunshine and come out—forty minutes or so later—in a torrential rainstorm. It's a life metaphor of sorts.

Out in the bright light of day, I observed a member of New York's Finest writing a ticket on Van Cortlandt Park South, which is not very far from Broadway Rose.

This particular bobby, though, was rather inconsiderate. He could have easily pulled his vehicle closer to the curbside, which would have enabled large vehicles to make—without too much hassle—a very difficult wide turn. While struggling to make his turn, this particular truck driver played it cool. Believe me, if John Q. Public had been parked like this policeman, he'd have gotten a horn-ful and then some.

Construction on terra firma that once housed the "World's Longest Bar" at Gaelic Park has not yet begun. It is expected to be modernized beyond recognition, which I suspect will consign the "World's Longest Bar" moniker to the ash heap of history.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)