Page 10 - the NOISE March 2013

SHORT STORY
a couple of cents for one of the many Chiclets cum Dentyne dispensers bolted to which was probably every third or forth support stan- chion. Oh those stanchions, assembled by sweaty men during the closing years of the nineteenth century, men released from the riveting jobs of the East River bridge cross- ings. Massive steel stanchions holding up the uncounted tons of concrete and earth overhead, a dynamic weight load of the very city itself, a load calculated not with comput- ers, but by men armed with nothing but slide rules and classic civil engineering books now long out of print.
I inserted my penny into the slot below the stack of Chiclet boxes visible beneath the glass, thick, with a thin crack running di- agonally, but intact despite some would-be thief’s attempt. I spun the thumb-sized lever around once and was awarded by the soft plunk of the small box containing two pieces of peppermint gum. I gave the wheel another turn, with hopes of revealing an occasional vending of an additional pack without charge. But alas it was not to be. My two other pen- nies went into the slots for Juicy Fruit and Dentyne. There was absolutely no chance of getting a stale piece of gum, what with 3 or 4 million subway riders each day in Metropolis.
“Here comes our train, Joe,” my dad in- formed. I got close to the platform’s edge and peered into the darkness of the tunnel, seek- ing the lights of the approaching dragon. No light visible, but I could hear the train in the distance.
“It’s on this side, Joe. We’re taking the F, not the E today,” my dad said. The inherent flexibility of the NY subway system allowed many different ways to get to one’s destina- tion. The approaching train manifested itself by a veritable hurricane, the warm wind push- ing ahead, smelling of New York and carrying a small load of dust. Throwing up a shower of sparks from the third-rail electrical supply as it switched onto the track in front of us, a whirl- wind blur dampened out and the conductor went past us as the train made a quick, but smooth stop.
We had but a slight walk to one of opening doors of the subway car. We took our seats and waited for the train to depart. Another whirlwind, slighter now, but just as insistent announced the approach of a train on the track opposite. It was a GG bound for Brook- lyn, and many of its former occupants rushed across the platform for their places on our train. A typical ding-dong note announced the imminent departure of the GG, doors par- tially closing, and then opening again to free some hapless commuter foolish enough to attempt entry through the closing doors. The conductor, seeing the fool, opened and just as quickly closed the doors. All doors safely closed now and indicator lights all green, the conductor signaled the motorman for depar- ture. The GG pulled out of the station as the doors of our train closed. We too, entered the dark tunnel underneath the East River.
The seats were supple, and I think were leather, and showed the wear of millions of posteriors. A few rips in the covering were expertly stitched together by some catgut. I chewed my Dentyne, saving the tiny box to use for disposing of the spent gum sometime later that afternoon. My gum would not join the flat, blackened yet still sticky blobs on the floor. The darkness in the tunnel was broken by the occasional whir of naked light bulbs weakly illuminating the stygian dark, some- times accented by a single blue or red bulb, or even by a vertical array of yellow bulbs in- dicating the location of an escape ladder or safety cutout in the tunnel wall.
The lights in the car in front of us would go out momentarily, followed by the extin- guishing of the lights in our car. Our lights
Iwas hanging around the courtyard of my apartment building. I spotted Jamie as he came around the corner from an adjoining building in the project.
“Hey Steve, ya wanta go with me and Frankie up to the pedestal tomorrow?” Jamie asked.
“Cant,” I replied to my best friend. “Aw, we’re gonna get some sticks and stuff from the sewer project and build a fort,” he added for emphasis.
“Sounds wicked, but my dad’s taking me to the stadium tomorrow,” I said.
“Sure ya can’t come with us? Frankie’s broth- er knows some big guys and one of them’s gonna cut a hole in the fence for us. Besides
— the Yanks got the pennant two weeks ago and it’s only the last game you know.”
“Maybe,” I said, “But remember that game I told you about in July? You know, we were up in the second deck in right field and I came this close to catching a homer that Mantle hit. Man, if he had just gotten a better piece of it, it would have landed right in my lap.”
My dad told me that nobody — even Man- tle — has hit a ball out of the stadium, ever. But he came close last year. He whacked one to right field and it was still climbing when it hit the lights.
I woke up the next morning, filled with an- ticipation of a ride into the city. I did a few er- rands for my mom, and sat in the living room waiting for my dad.
“Hey, Joe, I’m going to Sera’s and you meet me outside in about a half hour, OK?” my dad said. Dad always called me “Joe,” despite my given name of Stephen, Junior. He some- times called me Joe College, but usually just called me “Joe.” When I asked him one day, he said, “Ask your Mother.” So I asked Mom, and she told me that my dad wanted to name me Joseph Patrick, but my mother insisted that I be named Stephen Francis Imms, Jr. And that was that. But who really knew, perhaps the surprise birth of a son after three previous girls was a shock to Dad.
Sera’s Bar and Grill was only a short walk from 27th Avenue where we lived, and I car- ried a light sweater with me when I went out- side. I passed by Hy Berkowitz’s drug store on the corner of 8th Street and Astoria Boule- vard. Sera’s was right next door, and had two picture windows looking out onto the Bou- levard, and I took a peek into the right hand one to see my dad at the bar, finishing up a beer, with his ever present Camel dangling from his left hand. I was often amazed to see how dark the skin was on his left hand, but of course smoking a coupla packs of Camels a
day would do just that.
I went into the bar, and old man Sera was
at the far end of the bar, and as he turned and saw me he asked: “Stevie, gonna have a good time at the Stadium today? I really thought those Red Sox had a chance this year. But wait till next year,” he said as he turned back to one of the bar’s patrons. To this day, I believe he muttered something about Ted Williams and the Ruth curse. Sera’s father and mother had immigrated to America, sailing into Boston aboard a now forgotten ship. Most of his fam- ily was, naturally, Red Sox fans. But that didn’t hinder his friendship for my Dad.
“Ready, Joe?” my dad said as he climbed down from the barstool. He collected his cig- arettes and pushed a couple of dollars onto the bar as a tip. He always tipped. It was just his nature, him being a bartender and being on the receiving end of his customer’s lar- gesse. We went out into the fresh air, leaving the stale smoky, beery environs of the dark bar, and had a short wait for the Q-102 bus that would take us over to Queens Plaza.
The bus fare was, as I recall, not yet a quar- ter, and most likely 15 cents. The bus came along shortly and we took our seats along the rear. Dad liked to ride sitting on the side seats, but I always wanted to sit next to the window, just for the view. The ride was about 15 or 20 minutes, and we were soon entering the cavernous realm of the Independent subway, the oldest and most varied of the three New York lines, the others being the BMT (Brooklyn and Manhattan Transit) and the IRT (Interboro Rapid Transit)
The New York system was so set up years past to enable a rider to transfer from any subway line to any other subway line provid- ed that one did not exit a station. My Father always had a couple of tokens in his pocket, which obviated the need to walk the distance to the change booth. We simply inserted our tokens into the automatic turnstile and en- tered the station.
The subway had that dank smell, inter- mingled with a faint electrical smell and a very slight smell of urine. The tiled walls were just a bit grimy, with various advertising post- ers plastered onto their appropriate spaces. In some places the posters were partly torn away to reveal dozens of layers of older post- ers advertising all kinds of beer, whiskey, cor- respondence schools, upcoming events and of course the latest of Broadway plays and movies. Graffiti had not yet taken hold of the inviting walls.
The mezzanine level was dimly lit by what I would guess to be 25 or 40 watt bulbs, their
story by Steve Imms • illus by Henry Imms
slightly orangey glow pulsating by the pas- sage of the 25-cycle electricity which was en- tirely separate from the normal 60-cycle elec- tricity supplied by Consolidated Edison. You see, the subway system had its own power supply, entirely separate from the public utili- ties generators.
We walked toward the stairs which con- nected the Mezzanine level with the train platform, various noises echoing off the concrete walls, and the occasional squeal of a train’s wheels from somewhere inside the dark catacomb tunnel — a seldom silent world punctuated by announcements of ap- proaching trains interspersed with the whine of the Dynamotors which converted the third-rail 600-volt power to a more manage- able level used by the trains’ internal light- ing, ventilation, doors and controls. A whiff of electrical arc, not unlike the smell leftover by a summer thunderstorm, filled my nostrils, the ozone somehow having a cleansing effect on the grime.
The stairs were very wide, to accommodate the crush of commuters during the morn- ing and evening rush hours, but at this time of afternoon were pretty empty. Only a few rushing patrons endeavoring to catch a train, unable to sustain a wait of perhaps 5 or 7 min- utes for the next train.
We waited near the center of the platform, on an extremely heavy oak bench. One of the several newsstands nearby, with their captive attendants selling all of the seven daily New York newspapers, magazines, various sundry items like combs, postcards and the myriad array of chewing gums, cough drops, candies and mints, most of which were only a dime.
My dad picked up a copy of the New York Mirror, a tabloid-sized paper without any connection or similarity to that early tabloid, The National Enquirer, which glamorized the gangland slayings occurring with surprising frequency in those days, and grizzly pho- tographs of headless accident victims and exposés of Hollywood starlets and playboys. Obituaries like those of Erroll Flynn, dead of an apparent heart attack aboard a private yacht near Cuba, attended to by the likes of a would-be starlet, Beverly Aadland. Or sto- ries of the spent “Ding Dong Daddy of Santo Domingo,” none other than Porfirio Rubirosa, groom to a bevy of rich wealthy ex-wives from Tinsel Town. Yeah, the Rubirosa whose legacy is the aptly named large pepper mill brandished by restaurant hands throughout the world.
The newsstand attendant handed over the change from the purchase, and Dad gave me
10 • MARCH 2013 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us