Look what I ran across again in Midtown yesterday? The Bronx Banter Scoretruck. I stopped to take a picture and the driver leaned out of the window and said, “You got to see the other side, it’s got the city on it an’ everything.”
But the light changed I didn’t have time. I said, “I want to see you guys update this for 2011!”
“Me too, bro! We’re going all the way.”
One day, I’ll catch the flip side of the truck. Good ol’ scoretruck.
I gave up my seat for an older woman on the subway this morning. She was wearing a heavy green coat and carrying two shopping bags and a bulky purple purse.
I stood above her after she sat down. She had long black hair, speckled with gray, and a silk pink and purple scarf on her head, tied just under her chin. Something about her face, the shape of her mouth, reminded me of my grandmother on my father’s side. She raised her eyebrows as if she was having a conversation, which in fact she was, silently, with herself.
Her mouth chewed quickly and then I looked down and saw that she was holding a box of Dots. Eating Dots at 7:30 in the morning. It made me think–if you had to eat candy for breakfast, what would it be?
The other night I was in a cab with a chatty Russian driver from Brooklyn, a fat guy with a baby face.
He didn’t shut up the entire time which was okay with me. When he got to my apartment building he turned to me and said, “My father had four rules to life. One, whatever you do, try your best everyday. Some days won’t work out–hell, some days I can hardly leave my house–but try your best. Number two, don’t pay attention to what other people say because who cares? So, there you have it.”
“What about the other two?” I said.
“Ah, I forget. I have it written down somewhere.” He shrugged. “What counts is this: Do your best everyday, disregard what they say.””
[Photo Credit: Wired.com]
I saw a young woman crying on the subway platform today. From fifty feet away I could tell–her head was bowed, her hands covered her face. As I moved closer, she came into focus and yes, she was crying, the corners of her mouth turned down. My first instinct was to offer her comfort. That was quickly replaced by another thought–Who do you think you are, bro? What are you going to do? It’s none of your business.
Why was she crying? Did someone die, did she get into a fight with her boyfriend? I wondered as I walked past her and said nothing.
[Photo Credit: Le Xuan-Cung]
Ever feel lonely in the big city? I constantly talk to strangers, or communicate with them through eye contact or a head nod. My family is here. I’m out there in the world. But sometimes the loneliness is impossible to escape and it will creep up on you, even briefly, when you least expect it.
Via the Gothamist, check out this footage…I was 15 that summer (thanks to Bronx Rob, now Brooklyn Rob, for passing this along).
My first few apartments in New York were near the 6 Train. Using the 6 Train as your primary train is like eating from a salad bar and filling your bowl with only croutons. It may work for you, but only if you have specific, limited requirements and a tiny imagination.
It was several years before I felt comfortable with the rest of the system. If I was on the West Side and I needed to get to Yankee Stadium, I had to actually consult the map and think twice.
Now I live Uptown, work in Midtown, and have a wide variety of routes at my disposal. The labyrinth went from over-my-head to back-of-my-hand, though I can’t pinpoint the moment when the information fully settled. But it’s there now and it feels good to master something that seemed so complex at first.
As long as we’re not talking about Brooklyn and Queens. That’s just a mess.
When you leave New York people tend to be more open, easier with saying “hello” or “thank you” if you hold the door open for them. That doesn’t mean that we’re unthinking brutes, even if we are rough around the edges. It’s just that New Yorkers are more measured with their kindness. It doesn’t come automatically, which makes you appreciate it more when you find it. I’ll tell you this, though–I’m a hopeless snob against people who move to New York and are unfriendly. Maybe they are just trying to fit in, but hey, pal, it doesn’t hurt to be nice.
I walked to the subway in the remnants of a muscle-relaxed fog this morning. I eased into a seat and took out my book. But the text was swimming all over the page so I just looked around. So many people wearing green today. Why is that? O’crap. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. I forgot to wear green. Then I looked down at my shirt – by chance it was green. No pinches today. My kids might not be so lucky.
Robert Altman once said that you could write a movie by listening to snippets of conversation as you walked down the street.
Overheard on my lunch today…
Short woman talking into her cell phone: “Don’t hang up on me, bitch, I’m trying to f***ing talk to you.”
Two young women:
“W’e’re late, it’s already 1:15.”
“I’ve got 1:07.”
“Oh, that’s cause I set my watch ahead so that I freak myself out so that I’m not late in the morning.”
“That’s smart.”
Business guy talking to another business guy: “And I didn’t get in until 2 but I don’t even feel hung over.”
Dude on his cell phone: “C’mon baby, you know I love you. I love you like cooked food. What? No, for real, I love you like Red Lobsters.”
[Picture by William Gedney]
It is dark, cold and wet in New York this morning. Nothing like the rain to make the morning commute an adventure. The bus was jammed packed and so was the train. At one point, the conductor on the IRT said, “Please, step all the way inside, you are blocking the closing doors.” A few seconds passed and then his voice came over the loudspeaker again, “You are still blocking the door.” He wasn’t happy. Another beat, then: “I’m looking right at you!”
That got a good chuckle out of the people near me. I was smiling too. At the next stop, the conductor said, “This is a crowded train, people, let’s work together.” He wasn’t upset anymore but encouraging. And when we arrived at 72nd street, a transfer station, he said, “Number 3 arriving across the plaform, number 3. Oh, and it’s as crowded as we are. You are better off staying put.”
I got off the train at my stop and went up to the conductor, who was peaking out of his window, and told him what a pro he was and how much I appreciated riding with him. He had big teeth and he smiled and then he was gone.
Man, it’s hard to believe but I’ve gone the past two seasons without a regular Yankee hat. Yeah, I wore one that I got a cap day last year but it doesn’t fit right so it didn’t become a regular piece of gear. I used to buy the cheap hats with the snaps on the back for five bucks on the street. I’d break ’em in with lots of love then eventually lose ’em (which is why I only bought the cheap ones). But I dig it when you see an old hat, one that someone has had for years like this one that I caught on the train today.
So, what about you guys? How old is your Yankee cap? Do you wear a fitted one? How many do you own?
Whadda ya hear, whadda ya say?
A boy climbed into the seat next to me on the subway this morning and pressed his face against the window. We were underground and he looked into the darkness, yellow and red lights whooshing by. The train went above ground for a stop and then back into the tunnel. The boy didn’t seem to notice the change from dark to light and back again.
I remember staring out of the train window as a kid, fascinated by what was out there in the darkness, beyond the graffiti and the sparks of light and the dirt. It was all so mysterious and exciting, a playground for a young boy’s imagination.
[Photo Credit: Kirstiecat]
I had dinner at my aunt and uncle’s on the Upper West Side a few weeks ago and we got to talking about Morris, the deli counter man at the old Daitch Shopwell that used to be on Broadway. They loved Morris and the little old ladies who would visit him. This is what they overheard, back when.
Old Lady: Is the potato salad fresh?
Morris: Yes, we made it today.
Old Lady: It looks like yesterday.
Morris: Lady, you’re from yesterday.
Old Lady: How’s the roast beef?
Morris: It’s gorgeous.
Old Lady: Give me a half of a quarter pound of baloney.
Morris: You’re having a party?
Memory Lane
A friend of mine from high school lived across the street from me. Once a month or so we’d end up on the same subway car and kill the 40 minutes between 207th st and 59th st rehashing old high school stories and exchanging latest news on our mutual friends. He was the point guard and captain of the basketball team and I inherited those titles after he graduated even though only he bore the burden of actually being good at basketball. So we always had topics to cover.
I have tons of chances to reminisce over college experiences. My wife was in my graduating class. But high school has slipped away almost completely. When my friend moved, I realized this was probably one of my last chances to hear these stories.
One day, we were chatting and the third person in our A Train three-seater perked up and said, “I went to that high school too.” She was a few years younger than us, but she knew some of the people we knew.
And then I didn’t know what to do. Was she now in on the conversation? We had over 100 blocks to go – and, after a few niceties I just kind of settled back into the previous exchange. Now I feel guilty, like I should have included her more. But those few years of space made her just about as alien as everyone else on the train.
[Photo Credit: Infectedwithrage]
Heads Up
Mildly disturbed or potentially dangerous? This is a calculation every subway rider has to make a few times a week – maybe more. Somebody is going to be preaching, that’s just competition for your headphones. Sometimes it’s Showtime, and you need to make sure you’re out of the dancer’s kick-zone. Somebody is going to begging for money, but those guys never threaten. It’s tricky when someone is muttering indecipherable but unmistakably belligerent things to themselves. I see this a lot.
The clear tipping point is physical proximity. When I see a person going out of their way to occupy other people’s personal space, that’s when I take notice. One time, I was taking the train at an odd time – one or two in the afternoon – and only a handful of people were in my car. Two kids hopped on the train, 15 or 16 years old, obviously geeked up on something. They’re banging on the doors, ceiling windows, making their presence known. I was riding the train with a work buddy and, over a pause in our conversation, we heard them mocking our glasses. Trying to be heard.
There are no stops between 125th and 59th. That’s a long time to contemplate a perceived threat. We pretended we didn’t hear them. They got louder. We kept up the shield of ignorance, but we couldn’t return to our conversation. We were on full alert.
They bounced off at 59th St and, just as I thought the ordeal was over, one of the kids threw a punch at me as he was walking off the train. His hand got stuck in the plexi-glass divider that separates the three-seaters from the doors and his extended fingers ended up about 2 inches from my nose. He pulled his hand out just in time to squeeze through the doors.
I felt really stupid and helpless. These kids were obviously dangerous. I was aware of them the moment they got on the train and was prepared, I thought, for anything. And still if it wasn’t for that divider, I would have gotten punched in the face.
[Photo Credit: John Conn]
We see homeless people so often that they don’t even register. But sometimes, especially during the winter months, the sadness, illness, and isolation is enough to break your heart.
I am always impressed when I see a blind person on the subway or walking down the street. Sometimes, I’ll close my eyes and pretend what it is like to be blind. But I don’t last long and it is just pretend. Still, I am filled with humility at that moment.
I don’t mean to suggest that blind people are saints. When I was in college there was an angry blind guy who walked around and always had a remark if someone accidentally bumped into him. “Oh, I’m sorry, that must be my fault, I guess I’m blind,” he’d say.
Navigating the streets and subways might become second nature for blind people, because getting around when you’re blind isn’t really a choice, it is a fact of life. This may seem daunting as hell for people who can see, but some blind people have never seen, it’s just the hand they were dealt.
I am still struck with admiration for them all the same.
What games do you play while riding the subway?
Here’s a few: What if the train stopped and this became like an episode of “Survivor”? Who would take charge? Who would be the Alphas, who would be the trouble makers, who would crack first?
Who would I bone, and in what order? There’s lots of variations of this game, of course, like “Which beautiful women are lousy in bed,” and “Which regular-looking girls are tigers?”
Who is carrying a concealed weapon?
I used to play, “Who could I beat up?” but I’ve given up on that one.
Another favorite is guessing what stop people will get off.
