It was dark when I got up to write this morning. Before I got started, I checked my e-mail and learned about Hunter S. Thompson, last night’s game, and that my friend’s dog died yesterday. Later, I heard my wife get up and go to the bathroom and when she was finished, I got up and followed her into the bedroom. She called after our cat, Moe Green, who usually joins her in the morning, but it was me instead and I leaned down and hugged her after she got back in bed and under the covers.

When I got to the subway station I talked about the game with the token booth clerk. He’s my friend and he told me that in January he is switching stations. “You’re the only one I’ve told so far,” he said. I learned about the best stations (238 and 215) and the worst stations (242 and 231) to work uptown.  On the way downtown, I read about Wild Bill Hickok and wagon trains, a man whore and whisky. The story was interrupted by a mother sitting next to me. She scolded her daughter about using pen instead of pencil in a school workbook. “You should never, ever use a pen, ever.” Then she read airfare rates from the newspaper and asked her kid where she’d like to this winter.

It was cool in midtown when I got off the train and my eyes followed a woman with short blond hair, a long, beige skirt and red shoes, as I walked up to the street. On Broadway, I saw a family standing on the corner looking confused and speaking in French. I asked them if they needed any help and gave them directions to Central Park and spoke a few words in French and felt good about that. I thought about everything I’d already read or seen already as I walked to work to begin the day.

Everything you thought you wanted to know about the subway system but were afraid to ask.

There’s an understanding regarding seat selection on a subway train. Don’t sit right next to someone until you have to. The way this plays out on the A Train on weekday mornings is that you’re sitting by yourself for one or two stops, but by the time you get to 168th st, every seat is taken.

So it was a few days ago. I chose a corner seat on a bench of three seats so that I’d have only one person on my right and the partition on my left. The middle seat of my bench was empty. A short woman in her late 40s, dressed neatly, occupied the third seat.  I read my book.

After a few stops, a younger woman in jeans wedged herself into the middle seat. Business as usual.

Around 168th or 145th, the woman in jeans got up and headed toward the exit. At least that’s where I thought she was headed. She crossed the aisle and found a newly vacant seat. But it was also a middle seat between two other people. And one of those two other people was the short/neat woman form the third seat of my bench.

I held my gaze for another instant to make sure I was correct. Short/neat caught my eye and looked away quickly. I felt the blood drain from my face and sweat break out all over my head under my hat. The two people who shared my bench had bolted to the exact same position across the aisle at the first chance they got.

Was I the cause? I am usually acutely aware of how I might impact a train’s environment.

An Odor? I had showered and deorderized less than 30 minutes prior to their flight. My clothes were clean. I gave my shirt, jacket and hat discreet sniffs just in case. All clear. There could be dog shit on the soles of my shoes, but I couldn’t check right then. Music too loud? I whipped my headphones out of my ears. Not even a feint guitar scream escaped.

Oh God, could I have passed gas on the subway? I was not paying attention, but I cannot believe that I did. I mean, that’s the kind of thing that just can’t slip past you in public. My book isn’t even that good – since I finished the Martin books, I’m trying to remain unenthralled for awhile. If I am going to trust something about myself, let me start here.

I finally looked around. I missed the first exodus, perhaps I missed an offensive presence enter our area as well. I scanned the train but didn’t see anyone that looked like they used their pants as their bathroom. And at this point I realized that whatever it was that sent those women across the aisle, I had not noticed it. I had not smelled, heard, or seen anything out of the ordinary.

I arrived at my stop and I had to get out. I was shaken; couldn’t think of anything else. I checked my shoes on the platform. Nothing. I’ve tried to let it go, but once in a while I return to the mystery and want an answer. And it’s not coming.

[Featured Image via Zoo Y0rk]

My mother has a hard time sitting still. Even when she sits down to relax, her hands are busy with something–she’ll smooth out the edges of a napkin, or turn the pages of a magazine. She used to sew when we were kids, by hand and also with a machine, but I never saw her knit. I’m not sure why it didn’t appeal to her but I know many women, including The Wife,  love to knit (and some men dig it, too). They find the practice calming and productive, though I also hear The Wife curse and growl when she’s messed-up a pattern; that’s when she undoes a bunch of work and starts again.

It would drive me mad, but it doesn’t stop her, and when she’s finished, with a hat or a scarf, she’s got something handmade to give as a gift. This gives her a kind of satisfaction that is hard to replace.

Saw this on the train last night and I wondered what those balls of yarn will become.

[Featured image by Darwin.Wins]

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.

Ah, the Old Days…

I remember it well.

Recognize most all of these spots. This one here (below) was on 49th street between Broadway and 7th Avenue. When I first worked as a messenger in the Brill Building, summer of ’88, you couldn’t walk a city block without running into a porno theater. I remember making runs from 49th and Broadway down to the Technicolor lab which was on 44th street between 8th and 9th, seeing the viles of crack cocaine scattered along the sidewalk, and being propositioned by the hookers with bruises on their legs and arms. I moved fast in those days.

This trip down memory lane has been brought to you by Mitch O’Connell. In six parts: one, two, three, four, five, and six.

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.

Peace to Cliff C for point out this New York City greatness.

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.

Bernice Abbott (1954)

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.

New York in the Sixties, by James Jowers.

Retronaut wins again (and so do we).

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?