My old man believed in calling ’em like he saw them, especially when it came to compliments. If we were on a street corner with him, waiting for the light to change, and an attractive woman happened to be standing there, he’d think nothing of telling her, “My sons and I can’t help but notice what a beautiful woman you are and thought you might like to know as much.”

The woman would smile, sometimes unnerved, not knowing if it was a come on or what. Sometimes, if she was an assured New Yorker, she’d wink at my brother and me. It wasn’t a pick-up line, the Old Man just believed in expressing himself. Take it or leave it, honey. The man had charm to burn and no lack of chutzpah.

I don’t live in luxury.  I don’t reside in one of those pre-war Park Avenue buildings with those heavy glass and wrought-iron doors and the subdued dark wood paneling on the walls. Nor do I live in one of those gleaming apartment “towers” that dot the skyline.

I live in a simple, non-descript seven-story brick building erected in 1965 in Queens. But, our building (a co-op in which I am renting) does have one of those items seen in the “classier” buildings . . . a doorman.

Having lived in walk-up brownstones, residing in a doorman building is a treat. You have an added sense of safety when you arrive home. They hold packages for you, rather than you having to trudge to the post office or asking a neighbor to take in an expected parcel for you. They usually know what’s going on in the building before any of your neighbors.

Our building provides doorman coverage from 10AM-11:30PM weekdays, and 2-10PM on the weekends. Our doormen aren’t dressed in matching grey suits and hats like the ones you find “on the avenue”, but they’re always wearing nice shirts, ties and jackets.

I’ve only been in the building for a little over three years, but I understand that our weekday doorman has been in that position for many years. We haven’t been quite as fortunate in terms of night doormen.

The first one I met was a then-recent immigrant in his late 30s/early 40s, who was in the midst of studying for Medical School. He’d have one eye on the front door, and one on his books. It isn’t a bad gig for someone looking to have some quiet time while making a little dough. Sure enough, when he got his notice of acceptance into Med School, he gave up the doorman job.

His replacement was a nice-enough fellow, probably late-40s, wife, two small children. I came home one night to find him polishing the brass handrails. He held the bottle of polish up and asked me somewhat hesitantly “do you think this is safe to use on these rails?” I took a look at the bottle, and assured him it was OK. Another time, I came home at 11:30PM, to find his family waiting in the lobby for him to pack up and go home. Whatever his story was, it was short . . . he was gone within one month.

Next came Silvio, a Hispanic fellow in his early-to-mid 20s with a quiet demeanor and a well-kept ponytail and goatee. Silvio didn’t have any textbooks with him at the desk. Sometimes there would be a laptop, sometimes he’d be chatting on a celphone headset. I often wondered why someone his age would be subjecting himself to sitting behind a desk and collecting the recycling in an apartment building every weeknight. Was he saving his dollars for something? Was he between “real jobs”?

One night a few weeks ago, I came home to find that Silvio had ditched the ponytail. I thought, “hmmm . . . job interview coming up?”  Maybe I was right, as Silvio was gone a week later. His replacement hasn’t been hired yet, but I’m sure he’ll have his own story.

I first noticed it a few days ago coming out of the subway station on 103rd street. The light. Then a few more times this week, including various times this morning. The light. It’s changing. Spring is coming. We know that, of course. Every day, the papers have stories from Florida. Pitchers and catchers report to Yankee camp in three days.

It is still cold in New York and we’ll still have to endure plenty of lousy weather. Bring it on. You can’t stop the light.

I’ll tell you this–when it does warm up, this town is going to blossom like nobody’s business. Man, it’s gunna be a good spring.

This morning on the train a couple sat next to me with their toddler. When the father and the child got off, the doors closed and the mother stood up and looked out of the window and waved. I’m always interested in how people say goodbye to each other on the subway. Sometimes, you’ll see a couple kiss and even before one has left the train, they have both stopped looking at each other.

I always look.

When I was growing up, we had a dog who would chase our car whenever we left home. More than a few times, I’ve gotten off the train and said goodbye to my wife, and then run down the platform as a goof to crack her up. That’s my job, make the wife smile, keep her laughing. Or maybe it’s just the K-9 in me.

[Photo Credit: iphonegraphic from the flickr Subway Portraits gallery]

The one thing on a subway that will always get my attention is a lost soul. I mean literally lost. Like the guy has no idea where he is going. This happens a lot on the A Train, because it runs express and pretty quickly takes a rube out of the comfort of Manhattan proper and deposits him at 125th St before he can even figure out what happened.

Being lost can be no big deal if you are one of those self-assured types who feel like they can warp reality to their own will. But it can also make you feel helpless – especially if you’re working against the clock and have bitten off more than you can chew.

Last night, a late teen, early twenties type, looking like a savvy city-chick, turned to her neighbor at 125th st and asked if the train was going to Roosevelt Island. That grabbed me right in the gut. Roosevelt Island? That’s not even close. Her neighbor didn’t speak English, so I pointed her to the map behind her and explained she was about to stop at 145th St.

A glazed look of confusion engulfed her. Another rider quickly noted that she could make it Roosevelt Island fairly easily if she hopped out at 145th, took a downtown B or D to Roc Center and then transferred to the F Train. She staggered off at 145th and the other rider and I both watched her turn in awkward circles on the platform. We made eye contact and we both knew the timely advice hadn’t made a dent.

[Photo Credit: Clara]

I get nervous when I see someone reading their iPad on the subway. I have to fight the urge to tell them, “Put that thing away, don’t you know you could get mugged for carrying that around?” Maybe I’m still living in the ’70s and ’80s when being shook was a daily operation riding the trains (yeah, I was a kid then but the city felt lawless then too). Maybe you have nothing to worry about. But I am cautious about using my iPhone. Change the song, put it back in my pocket. 

Old habits die hard.

I was cooking yesterday afternoon when a knock came at my front door. It was a neighbor. She was crying so I invited her in. She is not from this country and just received news about one of her parents who is ill. She hoped to return home in time to see them before things got worse and asked if I could feed her cats while she’s gone.

“Of course,” I said. I hugged her. She smelled of cigarette smoke. I was surprised to find the smell reassuring.

She talked some more and aplogized for her tears. I listened and told her that she didn’t need to apologize. I offered to cook her some food, told her she could stop by later if she needed company. She said she was okay and I didn’t want to push.

Man, I can’t imagine what it must be like to live so far from your family.

[Photo Credit: Lanier67]

A large woman sits next to me on the train this morning. Plops down…what’s up with women who go to sit down and then practically fall with a thud into the seat?  I move over the best I can, now jammed between two people. Fair enough. But then the lady gets up after two stops and leaves the train.

Yo, you shouldn’t be allowed to sit, unless you are old, sick or hurt, if it is just for one or two stops. Sister gets the gas face.

From Banter reader, Emily Lemole Smith:

The other day while I was waiting at the bus stop the guy next to me and I were engaged in general ‘bus banter’: about how MTA is cutting back on bus services, how certain bus lines never seem to stick to their schedules, how disappointing it is when the driver shuts the door in your face just as you get to the bus… 

And the guy smiled and said, “But you gotta remember – this is New York.  The meek ain’t gonna inherit this one.”

[Photo Credit: New York in Photographs]

Most Tuesday nights, I play basketball for a few hours in a tiny, dank gymnasium on the West Side. When I hop on the uptown train to head home, I’m a sweaty mess. I try to stand as far away from the other passengers as possible, but those 30 minutes are hellishly uncomfortable.

Heaven forbid that I need a seat. Some nights, the game gets rough and I’m too sore to stand the whole way. It’s usually empty enough to find a seat, but rarely is that seat out of smelling distance from the others on the train.

It’s particularly upsetting when I’ve calculated my stench radius, chosen a “safe” location, only to watch a new rider get on the train and head for a seat right next to me.

First a hint of disturbance crosses her face. Then her nose crinkles as she sniffs more deeply for confirmation. Her eyes search for the source. As suspicion gives way to recognition, I know she knows. She gathers her stuff and finds a new seat. If she’s kind, she doesn’t look back.

Of course, worrying about it so much just intensifies the sweatiness. The only thing worse than being on a stinky train is being the stink.

One of the benefits of living up in the Bronx is that I always get a seat on my way to work. By the time we reach Washington Heights, the train is packed. Today, it was crowded and a few people in my car were short-tempered. Nothing dramatic, just cranky on a Monday morning, negotiating space. I looked up and took it all in and thought, It’s amazing that more fights don’t break out. But the social contract holds together–most of the time.

Sometimes I wonder what life must be like away from so many people? Would it be peaceful and a relief? Or would I miss the agitation, conflict, and the pleasure of meeting a stranger’s eye and smiling ever so slightly?

Last night on the uptown IRT, packed train, rush hour. As we approach 181st Street, the conductor says, “I would advise the passenger who is smoking to get off at the next station. The authorities have been notified.”

I’ve seen people smoke on the train before, kids used to love smoking blunts in the last car back when. Mostly, anyone who smokes on the subway is furious or crazy or both. But to do it on a crowded train? That takes chutzpah.

[Photo Credit: John F. Conn]

On the BXM1 Express Bus the other day, the PA system crackled to life and this announcement sprang forth, “The next stop is 96th St.” It was one of those recorded robotic voices, very clear and with the characteristic cadence and syntax.

“The next…STOP is…ninety SIXTH… street.”

I thought to myself, “When did they robotize the announcements on this bus line?” By the time I got off on my stop, I realized they hadn’t. The bus driver was just doing his impression of robotic voice. Over and over again.

He has a lot of hours to kill I guess, but I chuckled. I wondered if it would throw him off if I remarked on his ruse. I decided not to say anything. I’d hate to spoil his fun.

[Photo Credit: Viaduckvideo ]

There is nothing that depresses me like the sight of an empty token booth, like this one on the downtown side of a midtown stop on the IRT. The station has been without a clerk for some time now but the booth remains (and there is a clerk on the uptown side). The place feels haunted to me.  

A middle-aged woman came on the subway this morning with a small girl, maybe four or five years old. The girl sat a few seats away from me and the woman stood above her. I didn’t pay much attention to them but I caught the woman scolding the girl a few times. I read the paper and listened to my iPod. Then I heard the woman over the music.

“You are going to make me hurt you one of these days,” she told the child. She was smiling, playfully, without malice.

“Don’t believe me?” she said. “You don’t think grandma will hit you?”

Her words echoed in my head. The little girl sneezed.

“Bless you,” said her grandmother. “You need a tissue, sweetie?”

A few years ago I had some words with an older gentleman on the subway. We beefed about space, seating, something trivial. I’d see him after that–never forgetting an enemy–and took a small degree of pleasure when I caught him arguing with other passengers. I hadn’t seen him in a few years but last night he got on the train at 168th street. He looked thinner and older and he smelled. I heard him say something but couldn’t make out the words. A few people stood up and let him sit. He was a sad sight and I felt that I’d been petty, not in having an exchange with him one time, but for holding a grudge.

Two women on the IRT…

I listened to a street musician/comedian on the subway last night. When he was finished with his song he said, “I take donations and child support payments. I take spare change and chump change, folks. I take tax donations and college credit. Thank you. I take cell phone minutes.”

The last one got me.

Yesterday was the 10th annual No Pants Subway Ride in New York. Man, and I had to stay home (click here for more photos).

Meanwhile, peep this cool New York City Subway Moment by Emily Lemole Smith.

[Photo Credit: News.com.au and Liptick Alley]

I went to pick up chicken soup in my neighborhood last night and when I went to pay I wished the cashier a happy new year.

“Got any resolutions?” she said?

“Yeah, to be kinder to myself.”

“Oh,” she said, and looked at me. “That’s really cool.”

I surprised myself with that answer. Sometimes, you are honest when you don’t mean to be.

I walked outside and the street was clogged with cars. One guy, four cars behind the putz who stopped in the middle of the street, started leaning on the horn. “That’s not going to help,” I said to nobody.

I walked across the street and saw a man in a wheelchair yell, “That’s not going to help!”

I smiled as I walked past him and shrugged, “Sometimes, people can’t help themselves I guess.”

The man glared at the traffic. “Moron.”

“Yeah, you know it’s just so tempting, though. You are irritated, stuck in traffic, it’s the end of the day, and you’ve got that horn right there. How can you not press it?”

“Well, I’m tempted to throw a brick through a window but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

“Point taken.”

New York is a funny town.

[Picture by Bags]