Good Humor and Bad Humor in the Summertime

(Originally published on 7/21/17)

It’s officially a heat wave here in New York City—several days in a row of ninety-plus degree temperatures—and I don’t like it. I realize that I romanticize the summertime of my youth every now and then—outdoors much of the time and playing the games that little people played for generations, which, by the way, they don’t play anymore. But even as a spry and callow boy, the one-two punch of summer’s heat and humidity was never something desired and rarely, if ever, appreciated. My father’s mantra was that it—the discomforting clamminess and unhealthy air quality—was all in our heads. He didn’t realize it then, but he was a Buddhist at heart. Mind over matter.

Growing up in a seven-person household on the top floor of a three-family house with no air conditioning in the summer months was—in retrospect—pretty brutal. In the 1960s and 1970s, we experienced recurring electrical brownouts as well. During the high-consumption months of July and August, utility Con Edison’s answer to avoiding total blackouts was a brownout. The lights would flicker on the warmest nights, which was no big deal. But brownouts were especially unforgiving when it came to ice cubes. Heat, humidity, and half-frozen ice cubes with a foul taste were a familiar summertime threesome. On some of the cruelest of summer eves, an ice-cold drink wasn’t even an option.

Nevertheless, those were the days. Regardless of the temperature or relative humidity of a summer’s day, stoop sitting was a hallowed evening ritual, as well as—for a spell of time—a Good Humor truck passing by. This daily happening provided a brief respite from the heat, particularly if something icy was purchased like a watery, cola-flavored Italian ice, lemon-grape rocket pop, or lemon-grape Bon-Joy swirl. Lemon-grape was a winning combination.

First there was Larry the Good Humor Man, who drove the classic little truck that required him to step outside and pluck the ice cream from its back-of-the-cab freezer. And then there was Rod the Good Humor Man, who conducted business in a stand-inside truck. Apparently, Rod lived in the neighborhood. He would see us playing during the Good Humor off-season—parts of fall, spring, and the entire winter. So he said. Concentrating on grocery sales alone, Good Humor sold off its fleet of trucks in 1976. And that was the end of that! I see the present owners of the brand recently resurrected the ice cream truck and—along with it—the ice cream man and woman. I suspect they are stationed at parks and such, where ice cream vendors are still spotted. But chumming for business on neighborhood side streets? I doubt it. If a Good Humor Man materialized around these parts, he would find few kids playing outside in the hottest of weather. And as for off-duty sightings during the winter months—fuggeaboutit!

Epilogue: Larry the Good Humor Man was last seen driving a New York City yellow cab. Oh, but that was more than forty years ago. And Rod the Good Humor Man suffered a heart attack in the mid-1970s and lived to tell. I don’t know how or why I know that. I guess Rod told us at some point. Oh, but that, too, was more than four decades ago. Larry, as I recall, was on the younger side as a Good Humor Man, so he might still be among the living, but he would be pushing eighty by now. If he’s still extant, I hope he’s in good humor. Rod, I fear, is more likely among the angels. With any luck, he’s ringing the celestial equivalent of his Good Humor truck bells, an inviting sound for countless living and dead souls who bought ice cream on steamy New York City nights a long time ago.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Bohack's Injection

(Originally published 7/22/10)

While combing through a box load of miscellaneous relics from the past, I came upon a Bohack's supermarket matchbook. Bohack's stores were a New York City chain that went the way of the dodo bird sometime in the mid-1970s. In fact, there was a Bohack's a block away from where I grew up. It operated for many years on the southeast corner of Tibbett Avenue and West 231st Street in the Bronx. And after the Bohack's brand fell by the wayside, a Sloan’s supermarket took over the spot, then a C-Town, and then a Sloan’s again. Today, a health and fitness club conducts business on this formerly hallowed ground.

The Bohack's matchbook find lit a fire in my memory bank. Bohack's is where a sixteen-year-old friend and neighbor, my fifteen-year-old brother, and yours truly, not yet thirteen, shopped for our August 1975 camping trip to Harriman State Park, which is an hour or so north of New York City.

My brother, a Boy Scout at the time, purportedly knew the park's terrain and various nooks and crannies from past scouting trips. He was, for all intents and purposes, our fearless leader. We had the Boy Scout's handbook with us, too. And since this adventure of ours wasn't choreographed as a survival mission, we brought along a box of Bohack's matches, just in case the rubbing of two sticks together didn't do the trick.

To make a long story short: Dad dropped us off in an undisclosed location—an obscure, dead-end road somewhere on the periphery of a picturesque village called Sloatsburg. This spot admirably functioned as our portal into the forestland, where we had every intention of spending three full days and nights camped out under the stars on some off-the-beaten trail in the woods, and not some sissy campground. Unfortunately, we neglected to consult the weather bureau before our excursion, and day two in the great outdoors featured the heaviest rainstorm of the entire summer. Luckily, we had our Bohack's bounty with us: hot dogs, bread for peanut butter sandwiches, and Milky Way bars for snacks. While drowning in a flash flood or mudslide was always a possibility, we weren't about to starve to death.

We also brought along a radio, so we knew what was happening in the outside world. Yogi Berra was fired as the New York Mets manager on August 5th while we were one with nature.  Rumors were that Brooklyn Dodgers great, Hall of Famer Roy Campanella, was his imminent replacement, despite being confined to a wheelchair. We had no cell phones. These devices were still a quarter of a century away from being in the hands, ears, and pockets of the multitudes. So, if anything, God forbid, happened to one of us, a long and meandering haul to find help would have been required. And, worse still, if a Jeffrey Dahmer-guy materialized, we were toast and could have effortlessly been disposed of sans a trace that we lived and breathed, except perhaps for a few Milky Way wrappers.

It was unquestionably a simpler time to be both alive and a kid. Nowadays, it's hard to conceive of parents permitting their teens to experience such a walk on the wild side—with or without a means of communication. Anyway, the footnote to this tale is that our respective fathers rescued us a day earlier than the scheduled pick up, surmising that the monsoonal rains had put a serious damper on things. Fathers knew best in this instance. And no social workers showed up at our doors, either, to place us in foster homes. 

Thirty-five years have now passed since this camping trip of a lifetime. It was the one and only time that I bedded down on roots and tubers, slept under both stars and rain clouds, and employed a decomposing log—home to a colony of ants and community of roly-poly bugs—as a toilet seat.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Freddie McFlicker

(Originally published on 4/10/18)

This essay is a reprise from a year ago. And during this revolution around the Sun, Freddie went missing for a spell. I eventually spied him looking quite thin and jelly-legged—almost unrecognizable. A major medical moment, I surmised. Now Freddie's disappeared once more and I wonder if I'll ever see him again. I miss him. Life in a breadcrumb.)

There’s this little patch of land that’s considered part of Van Cortlandt Park. In fact, it’s called “Van Cortlandt’s Tail” because it’s at the park’s far end—or beginning from where I sit. And speaking of sitting, this tail section of the park is a circle—or a horseshoe might be more apt—of benches. That’s pretty much it. Sure, it’s got a tall evergreen in its center, which is decorated every Christmas. And right now it’s festooned with tulips and past-their-prime daffodils.

It’s a piece of earth—well, asphalt mostly—that I passed by regularly for decades. Since I was a boy as a matter of fact. It was a place that I couldn’t conceive of ever hanging out in—for any reason. There was no conceivable need. Why would I want to sit on a bench that overlooks the El and the noisy Number 1 trains repeatedly coming home to port and heading out on their Manhattan-bound returns.

Life, though, is full of surprises. Nowadays, I find myself in Van Cortlandt’s Tail quite frequently to rest my weary bones. I find the coming-and-going of earsplitting trains almost soothing. It’s the urban equivalent, I guess, of going down to the harbor and watching the boats come in and out. 

Several blocks south of the tail is another small snippet of land with New York City park designation. When all of us were growing up—in the non-politically correct, freer 1970s—it was known as the “Bum Park.” Not nice—yes—but suffice it to say the place attracted some unsavory characters, many of whom were down on their luck.

Van Cortandt’s Tail is not quite the Bum Park North, but it hosts its fair share of characters, including a man I have not-so-affectionately dubbed Freddie McFlicker. I see him regularly roaming the area, sometimes eating a sandwich and other times with a small bag of bread scraps to feed the birds. But there is something very dark about old Freddie. He flicks one crumb at a time and watches—with sadistic delight no doubt—the birds battle over it. He lives in a nearby building, I think, and my detective work surmises that he is unmarried and has abused alcohol at one time or another. He wears an angry face and doesn’t fraternize with anyone but the birds.

Strangely, I’ve come to despise the mere sight of him. All of us, I suspect, have a Freddie McFlicker or two or three in our lives. The bird feeding bit speaks volumes to me. I’ve also noticed that he has a preferred bench. It’s where, coincidentally, I like sitting. The bench is at the beginning of the tail, so you’re never surrounded by people and a quick, unobtrusive exit is always possible.

Well, today, I was sitting on Freddie’s bench—the only one in the whole tail until Freddie in the flesh appeared. There were dozens of empty benches to choose from. But what does Freddie do? He sits on the one right beside me and commences eating his lunch. I could feel hostility in the air. I wanted to get up right away in protest—in disgust—but decided I couldn’t let Freddie McFlicker win this round. So, I stayed for a bit and finally exited the tail, leaving sneering old Freddie alone with his half-eaten sandwich and maybe a few crumbs to be flicked to the birds. He muttered something as I left, but I don’t know if it was meant for me or his feathered friends.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Spring in My Step

(Originally published 4/16/19)

To give or not to give—that is the question?  I give a dollar or two—and occasionally more—to many of the panhandlers I encounter in my travels. Anyone, though, with a political or race-charged rant is out of luck. Honestly, it would be impossible to give to all—or even most—considering the staggering numbers of them on the unforgiving city streets and in the dusty recesses of the subway system.

                       

There are some folks I know who just say no—period and end of story. It’s like a religion to them. They claim that such generosity does more harm than good. God forbid the recipients buy booze or some illegal substance with their windfalls. And that may, in fact, occur in a fair share of instances. So what if it does? I give with no strings attached. There’s this one rather sanctimonious fellow in my life circle who claims he only gives money to the men and women who don’t ask for it. This guy’s a political liberal. On the other end of the political spectrum, of course, there are the conservative-minded who absolutely believe that those on hard times need only to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and find employment.

I had all of this on my mind and more as I ascended the staircase of the Van Cortlandt Park subway terminal this past Saturday. A figure whom I'd seen before loomed large at its apex. He wasn’t New York City transit’s equivalent of a Wal-Mart greeter. No, the man was looking for a handout. I gave him two dollars and he replied, “You made my day!” I really hope I did. And I don’t care how he spent the money. Shortly thereafter on the platform proper, I spied this elderly woman—whom I’d also spotted before—rifling through the trash cans. She, though, never asks for money. It’s a very sorry spectacle but par for the course in that milieu. On the train a little while later was that lady with the empty mayonnaise jar. Her shtick never varies: HIV-positive, infant daughter, and no food in the refrigerator until payday, which is invariably two weeks away. I can't say for certain that her talking points would pass a fact check. But permit me to borrow from Oprah here: What I know for sure is that her getting a job is not possible and, too, wouldn’t likely solve her myriad problems.

Later, I encountered a woman sitting in a sea of rags, bags, and newspapers on a sidewalk in the environs of Penn Station. She was getting up there in the years and quite filthy. “I know…that’s right…look at me…I’m disgusting!” she bellowed to uncomfortable passersby. I wondered if that acquaintance of mine with the policy of giving to those who don’t ask for money would have given this old lady some. She didn’t ask for any.

On my train ride home, a young woman delivered a spiel that mentioned—among other things—an urgent need to purchase sanitary napkins. I tuned out of the further particulars and gave her two dollars. She returned later in the trip and repeated the same rather disjointed appeal, sanitary napkins and all. The gal also spoke directly to a passenger whom I naturally assumed was having the bite put on him. So, I was genuinely surprised to see the two of them leave the train together. Were they a grifting duo? Whatever...playing judge, jury, and executioner in these circumstances is not for me. Now, on to more benign encounters and observations from the weekend and week that was.

Seated on a bench opposite this stand, a woman mistook me for the fruit-and-vegetable vendor. She must not be from New York, I thought. Maybe forty years ago...

"Look up in the sky. It's a bird. It's a plane. It's Superman."

I've noticed increasing numbers of iron fences around sidewalk flower beds. Take my word for it, there's a three-sided fence around this one. Without them they would be poop decks for sure. 

And tiptoe though the tulips with me...  

There's graffiti and there's this. One is bad and the other is good.

It's impossible to walk the streets of Manhattan without encountering the latest casualty of a greedy landlord. Say it ain't so: Cafe Water is no more.

There is the Narcissus that I can't get enough of and the Narcissist that I wish would vanish altogether.

One hundred years ago at this very spot stood an El and a lot of wide-open spaces.

The ravages of time: The El endures; the wide-open spaces do not.

New York City politicians are considering banning single-use plastics, which wouldn't be such a bad thing. Trees may flower in spring around here, but they are adorned with plastics all year long.

I have to say that of these three businesses, my vote goes to the Great Wall for the best name.

I noticed on Facebook this week complaints about New York City planting trees that uproot sidewalks, which, in turn, compel both homeowners and business owners to repair them and pay for the work. While I'm not a fan of bureaucratic overreach, I'm glad the aforementioned owners don't have the power to chop down sidewalk trees at will. If they could, I fear we would be living in an absolute concrete and asphalt jungle.

Hey, fella, you don't know what you're missing. 

Something to always remember: There is always light in the middle of the tunnel.

I observed a group of tourists for a spell. One fellow in the mix was hopelessly lost in his smartphone the entire time. I wanted to say: "Stop! Look around! What's the point of coming here if you don't!" 

And, while you're at it, look out for Number One.

When I was a youth, New York City's garbage was largely consigned to landfills located in New York City. There was one in the East Bronx. Now they are all closed and it's garbage in and garbage out.

To end on a positive note: While they are a dying breed for sure in these parts, there are still some good diners around. You just have to know where to look.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)