I love the shots of the wet city streets in “Taxi Driver.”  They have an almost hallucinatory feel. I thought of those images today on my way to work, when the morning looks like night, the neon lights bouncing off the pavement.

When I was little a friend of the family would sometimes take my sister, brother, and me to McDonalds on Broadway between 95th and 96th. We lived on West End Avenue and 103rd and we complained about how far it was to walk even though it was less than ten blocks.

I thought about kid logic today on my way to work. A mother pushed an empty stroller up a hilly block. Her son, maybe five-years-old said, “Mom, can I get in the stroller?”

“No, you cannot. I want you to walk.”

The kid was too big for a stroller but that hill must have made him ask.  Can’t say I blamed him but I felt a strange satisfaction when his mother made him walk. Guess I’m not so young anymore, either.

By Ben Belth

When I arrived at SUNY Purchase for college orientation in 1992, I was greeted in my dorm suite by a tall Puerto Rican dude wearing a Magic Johnson Lakers jersey. He looked like what I wanted to feel like: big, capable, calm. He was busy wrapping black tape around the frame of his messenger bike.

Whatsup, he said and tightened his hand around the bike’s front fork. I didn’t answer right away so he stopped what he was doing and looked up. I said whatsup? You look like…he smiled and bugged out his eyes and said BLEUUAAH!

Country mouse meet city mouse. Ben meet Jay. He was older than me, about 21 already. Had a daughter and a criminal record. Was trying to find his footing, too. But he was confident. Had two girlfriends inside a week, one who was late night Robin Byrd, the other who was daytime TV. He had charisma to burn and he lit it off from both ends. He was a sometime dealer, sometime philosophy major. Trouble. But he never got in so deep that he couldn’t charm his way out. He took good care of his daughter. We had a soft spot for each other, being so different but lost touch after I moved away from school.

Then 10 years later, there he was. There I was. Living in the same north Manhattan neighborhood.

I’d see him around all the time. Me with my little kids, him still shucking and jiving. His daughter was all grown and in college herself. Jay had moved from dealing trees to dealing Tees. He had a line of shirts that he sold at the local café and all the hipsters loved them. They were authentic, smart, cool without being corny. Just like Jay.

My wife and I got sick of the city. We moved to north Westchester, far, but not too far. After 19 years, I was a country mouse again and Í didn’t miss the subway yet, I didn’t miss the food yet. I didn’t miss anything except Jay.

So I went back and found him at the café. Gave him a dude hug. He gave my son a pound. I turned to see who else was hanging around and when I turned back, Jay was gone. Just like that.

My son asked me where Jay went? I shrugged and ordered a cup of coffee. A New York Minute was all I really needed anyway.

One of the best parts of my day is the short walk to my younger son’s daycare each morning. One of the worst parts of my day is when their front door closes with him on the other side.

I walk with the happiest, chattiest kid on Broadway. But as soon as we enter his classroom, his smile flatlines. He clams up and gently clings my leg.

He’s past the point of fearing or disliking the place. Before I’m across the street, he’s back to his regular self, running and horsing around with his friends. But for the 45 seconds I unzip his jacket and hook it with his Yankee hat in his cubby, he’s totally blank. He doesn’t argue or fight or try to get me to stay. Passive resistance in it’s purest form.

He’s never once said goodbye to me. This morning, one of his teachers lifted him up to the small square window in the door to give him one last chance to wave or grin. He stared through me like I was a lamp post. The corners of his mouth never even flinched.

Later today I’ll hear how he had a great day and I’ll forget feeling like I broke his heart this morning and I’ll forgive myself. Again.

A parent in New York has a few special responsibilities. You’ve got know how the bus routes and subway maps mesh with the best playgrounds. You’ve got to steer your kid away from the Mets. You’ve got to try to protect the downstairs neighbors from the all-hours demolition derby going on in the living room.

And you should teach them about pizza.

For my son’s fourth birthday he asked for Domino’s Pizza for dinner. I’m not quite sure how he got to this point. We have a decent pizza jernt in the neighborhood, but it’s not a paragon. And it’s a little slow.

One day when we needed pizza to arrive instantly, we called up the local Domino’s. It’s been a steady progression towards the “pizza with the sand on the bottom” from there.

I know I’ve let him down in some hardboiled fashion, but really, is being a pizza snob such a great legacy to impart? Or maybe Domino’s is a phase you have to go through in order to finally arrive at the proper level of snobbery in adulthood? I can remember in my early teens thinking that it didn’t get much better than Pizzeria Uno. And though I grew up in New Jersey, I was lucky enough to have two exemplary pizza parlors in my tiny town.

Of all the things that I thought I’d be vigiliant about as a parent, I did not anticipate any pizza problems. But now that I watch him enjoy Domino’s so thoroughly, I’m not going to try to push him in any other direction.

When he comes to me in twenty years and asks “How could you?” I’ll just show him a picture from his fourth birthday dinner and hopefully he’ll understand.

A few days ago I was on the uptown 1 train in the early evening a few minutes before the magic hour. We were above ground, past Dyckman, when I looked out of the window and saw the moon. The sky was blue and a plane crossed in front of the moon and the trail it left was not white but orange from the setting sun behind us.

I turned to see if I could get the attention of anybody nearby. This was too beautiful, too fleeting, to keep to myself. But I couldn’t catch anybody’s eye so I turned back. The plane was almost out of the window frame, the faded orange trail still there beneath the moon. And then it was over.

There was a time when I would have felt cheated at not being able to share the moment with someone else, even a stranger. Instead, I took a mental picture of what I saw, and savored it. And that was  enough.

[Photo Credit: Adria Canameras]

So one of our own, Brian, is a barber. He recently moved to New York from the west coast and is setting up shop at a place called FSC Barber (there are two locations downtown, he’s at 5 Horatio Street in the west village). He’s there, Monday through Wednesday (11-8) for the next two weeks, in audition-mode. As a result, he’s giving haircuts and shaves for free. Go in and ask for Brian. Tell him the Banter sent you.

And that’s word to your barber.

Carrying a Kindle on the subway is not big deal. Nobody wants to steal a Kindle. They want iPads and iPhones. But while I was away, my wife started up with the Kindle and I’ve got to switch to other reading. I wouldn’t mind carrying a book or a magazine or something, but I’m halfway through the fifth book of the Song of Ice and Fire series and I’m not stopping there. It would be like pausing to set up camp on the final quarter of the descent from Everest.

But that leaves the tablet or the phone as my reading choices. The phone is too small for me. But damn, I did not feel comfortable at all whipping that other thing out. It’s a little too heavy for super-easy handling and it’s incredibly conspicuous. It’s designed to catch your eye after all. One of the stops on my route is notorious for ripping off iPads, and I looked down to see that I’m clutching the corners with white fingertips.

I’ve got to get that Kindle back, Daenerys Targaryen is counting on me.

Walk down into the subway, pay a small fee, and the city can be yours. If the city is big enough, and the subway thorough enough, there’s no better way to get around. No other mode of transportation can bestow the access and the sense of accomplishment. Getting in a cab can get you most places, but there’s more chance of getting stuck in bad traffic in a busy city than there is of having a problem on the train. And walking is wonderful, but can’t take as far as you’d often like to go.

I realized this as I took the subway in Japan last Friday night over to the Tokyo Dome to see the Giants play. The ride was simple and short. Only one transfer and less than twenty minutes. But bounding up the steps of the Korakuen station and onto the exterior concourse of the Dome, I felt so happy. And in there was a little pride I think, too. I almost let a little, “I did it,” escape, but I stopped it at the top of my throat.

At first I was embarrassed to be proud of such a simple thing as a subway ride. But I’ve always had trouble confronting tasks with which I have no experience and no guide. I started thinking more and more about what it means. The access, the freedom, the speed.

And just like that, the city was mine.

Last night before the game, my boys wanted to play trains. I started stacking tracks and they pulled the trains out of the yellow toy cubby.

“Which train do you want, Daddy?” asked the two-and-a-half-year-old.

“The one that’s fast, clean and not too crowded,” I said.

“So not the A Train?” asked the four- year-old.

And So. We didn’t sleep well, ok.  And yeah, we’ve got all day to wait before greeting Mr. Burnett tonight. Fine. At least we’ve got a game to watch. And anything can happen.

[Photo Credit: Martin Fuchs and Joel Zimmer]

There is an older woman I see on the train often, looks like Selma Diamond (if only she spoke like Selma Diamond). She wears gold and fiddles with her phone. This morning, one stop away from where we both get off, a middle-aged woman with long hair sat next to her. I missed what started it all but they began to argue. Selma got up, “There, now you can have all the space you need.”

“Good, I do need it.”

“I bet you do, bitch.”

“I’m not the bitch, you’re the bitch. Old bitch.”

“Look at you,” said Selma, “Aren’t you too old to be acting like a bitch?”

“I’m a good bitch. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll beat you up.”

This is when the middle-aged woman with long hair stood up and shook her finger at Selma. But Selma had her head turned, earphones in her ears,  and the middle-aged woman sat down. They kept at it some but it wasn’t going to get worse, just two cranky ladies on a Monday morning cursing at each other.

I was left with one thought as I got off the train. When does “I’ll beat you up” stop being part of your arsenal in an argument?

It was warm and humid in New York until yesterday evening after a rain. Then, the autumn was back in the air. And the coolness is still there today although it’s not cold. But it is playoff weather and for Yankee fans the change to fall means more baseball. This won’t last forever, the Yankees making the playoffs annually, but it has been a constant in New York life for a generation now and you have to be a selfish fool not to take a moment to breath it in and give thanks.

[Photo Credit: I Spy NYC]

From Glenn Stout: “Hangovers were instantaneous, severe and violent.”

I wondered about being hungover as I passed this guy today and felt the ground vibrate.

More from Stout:

Mike Torrez screamed “I’m off the hook!” Darrell Johnson was sprayed with champagne in the Met clubhouse. Bill Buckner danced a jig on his ranch in Idaho, while Carl Crawford, Jonathan Papelbon and a cast of thousands not named Jacoby Ellsbury pushed Pesky aside, their careers distilled into a single moment, the lead of their obituaries already written. The whole 2011 roster elbowed their way past Stanley and Schiraldi and Galehouse and Willoughby. Don Zimmer, Joe McCarthy, Joe Cronin, John McNamara and Grady Little welcomed Terry Francona to the brotherhood while Joe Maddon looked on in sympathy, Buck Showalter grinned and pushed the pin into the voodoo doll a little deeper and Theo Epstein felt the pain and tried to peel the target off his forehead. Robert Andino joined Aaron Boone and Mookie and Bucky as an improbable villain and regional epithet. The dark corner deep in the heart of all Red Sox fans everywhere, the one that appeared to have healed got ripped open and suddenly seemed a little darker, a lot more crowded, and a whole lot more unpleasant.

More than one Boston fan woke the next morning and either logged on or turned on the television or clicked on the radio to confirm that the ultimate nightmare had indeed taken place. It had.

In the elevator this morning with my neighbor, Bee. She’s a nurse and we sometimes meet on our way to work. She is a zaftig Puerto Rican with a big smile. Got an easy laugh. Bee’s also a huge movie fan so I mention the upcoming George Harrison documentary by Martin Scorsese.

“Oh, I love Rock n Roll,” Bee said. “I was one of the only Latina’s that did back then. You don’t believe me? Inagaddadavida, baby!”

I remember waiting for the subway once with my grandfather. 81st Street, Museum of Natural History stop.  He walked to the edge of the platform and leaned over to see if a train was coming. That image is frozen in my mind. He was not a physical man and I was convinced he would tip over and fall over, down to the tracks. He didn’t. When the train came, we got on and an older guy kept looking at me and I thought he was going to mug us.

Mug. That was a word that was always on my mind as a kid in New York. I don’t hear it so much anymore. Not “jack” or “rob.”  Mug. Whenever I was on the subway I’d try to guess who would mug me and how I could escape.

[Photo Credit: Bruce Davidson]

Ah, if only we had a time machine and could go back and sit in the Polo Grounds. Man, that’d be nice.

[Photo via The Mighty Flynn]

On my way to the subway this morning I see a bus trying to make a left turn on a narrow street. But a car going the other way is blocking it. They both stop and soon there are several cars behind the car. The bus driver folds her arms and waits.

The woman driving the car blinks first and does a u-turn to let the bus pass.

Take a minute, or seven, to enjoy one of the great New Yorkers of them all.

We miss ya, George.

Enter Sandman rang through Yankee Stadium on Wednesday night, even though Mariano was in Seattle. Metallica was in town and a few of my friends went to see the show. They grabbed a few beers for the subway and made their way uptown.

I’m opposed to boozing on the subway because booze leads to piss and you’re S.O.L. when nature calls underground. More than that, groups of drunkards can get aggressive and, at times, violent, and I’d rather not be confined in tiny box cars with them when that happens.

So I wholeheartedly support police presence down there for the big crush of ball games and concerts. When my friends got busted I had no sympathy for them when the started to tell the story. But the story didn’t end where I expected it would.

One of them had an unpaid citation (of which he has no recollection) and he got to spend the next 19 hours on a tour of the New York City correctional facilities. He spent the night in lock-up. By the time he finally got to see a judge, around the noon the next day, she took one look at the case and sent him home with time served, seemingly annoyed she even had to say that much.

I think he should have been punished. There are a limited number of cops and just maybe they could have been doing something more useful at that moment. But in the end, he didn’t even pay a dime, for either citation and how much money did he cost the system by being processed? The way this went down seems like a terrible waste of everybody’s time and money.

What should have happened?