So the Last Shall Be First

(Originally published 12/2/18)

Well, that is the case with the Number 1 train. The last car going downtown is the first car coming uptown. I ride the first car going downtown and the last car coming uptown. It is urban science based on the various cars’ locations vis-à-vis the various subway station entrances along the way. Typically, they are among the least crowded. Anyway, this is my story of another first—in December—with my random observations of what I encountered on my journey.

Foremost, the holiday season is in full swing. Signs of the season abound. Christmas tree sellers are—to use my late father’s favorite phrase to describe a busy retailer—doing “a booming business.” From the looks of things, many folks buy their trees quite early nowadays. Once upon a time, selling trees pre-Thanksgiving—which I saw in my neighborhood a couple of weeks ago—did not happen. But that was then and this is now. What I would like to know is how these trees survive an entire month or more indoors without drooping, drying out, and becoming a fire hazard? As a youth, the family tree went up a few days before Christmas. It was almost always a Balsam fir, which could not wait, as I recall, to start shedding its needles.

Recently, I read of a Manhattan tree seller charging twenty-five to thirty dollars a foot. He claimed the extreme pricing was the consequence of an industry shortage. On the city sidewalks, busy sidewalks yesterday, I just did not see it. Shoppers had a bumper crop of trees from which to choose. When I spied a young woman with a Charlie Brown-sized tree awaiting a train, I calculated she would have paid—using the price-gouger’s arithmetic—at least fifty dollars for the privilege. When I snapped a Christmas in New York shot of the tree, what I got was an unintended image of straphangers without exceptions mesmerized by their devices and not the Charlie Brown tree. ‘Tis the season to stare into your smartphone.

Prior to these unmistakable signs of the season, a woman sat beside me on the subway in what are—in practical reality—Billy Barty-sized seats. Sitting with her back to me, this gal found it necessary to speak with her husband—eyeball-to-eyeball—on her right. With her ample head of hair in my face, I assumed the role of the back of a seat for what seemed like an eternity. It was all very annoying but, regrettably, par for the course. Fortunately, there were more uplifting encounters in the offing, like coming upon belching steam pipes. There is something about these things that cry out: “Take my picture!” And no two shots are ever the same!

For some reason, I associate New York City steam pipes with Christmastime. An annual holiday tradition during my childhood involved a Manhattan shopping jaunt with my aunt and brothers. Upon exiting the subway directly across from Macy’s main entrance there was, as I remember, a billowing steam pipe, which always complemented the December cold. Toss in the sounds and scents of Christmas—sidewalk Santas ringing their bells and street vendors peddling hot dogs, chestnuts, and pretzels—and that is a festive ambiance par excellence.

One such year—in the mid-1970s just before entering Macy’s—we bore witness to an accident involving two yellow taxicabs. A passenger in one of them exited with a streak of blood running down the topside of his bulbous nose. I must admit that this was all great theater for a kid and made the memorable outing even more so. Of course, that was forty-five years ago. The fellow with the bulbous nose is no doubt long gone—and not from injuries sustained in the fender bender—and so are the stores we patronized, with the sole exception of Macy’s at Herald Square. Gimbel’s, Korvette’s, Woolworth’s, Kress’s, Brentano’s, and Brew Burger, too, are in the dustbin of history. Brew Burger was a 1970s chain specializing in—you guessed it—charred hamburgers and beer in the pre-craft era. Sans the brew, we patronized the place a time or two. But Christmas future is far away. And Christmas past is past. Christmas present is here today. So, I am grateful that—at the very least—the steam pipes endure in the here and now.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Thanksgiving Story

(Originally published 11/20/17)

While duly employed in another line of work more than two decades ago, my boss, Richie, spotted a couple of our regular customers, Bud and Carol, dining in a Nathan’s fast-food restaurant. At the time, he was cruising down the well-traveled Central Avenue in Yonkers and noticed them—courtesy of the place’s paneled glass windows adjoining the busy thoroughfare—seated at a table. Were it not for the fact that it was Thanksgiving evening, this sighting would not have been worth mentioning.

Often a stoic who played his compassionate side close to the vest, Richie nonetheless found something poignant at the spectacle of this long-married couple eating at Nathan's on Thanksgiving Day. After all, Bud and Carol were pleasant enough folks who spent a fair chunk of change shopping in our store every week. Bud was retired and significantly older than his wife, and they had no children. That is, if you did not count their menagerie of animal friends, which included, at one time or another, everything from minks to ferrets to monkeys. And, yes, they had multiple cats and dogs, too. Anyway, Richie thought it would be a nice gesture to invite Bud and Carol to our business’s upcoming Christmas party, which he did. They happily accepted and a grand time was had by all.

Fast forward twenty-five years and Bud and Carol are still among the living. They are, however, experiencing financial woes. Money troubles that Bud never envisioned when he retired after a lengthy and productive working career. Considering Bud and Carol’s ample brood of mouths to feed—and the amount of money they spent on them for food, supplies, and medical care—we were all convinced that Bud had quite a tidy nest egg and would never, ever be sweating the bucks.

Last winter, however, old Bud materialized at Richie’s new place of business. He requested a helping hand—i.e., a cash allowance to pay off a large and overdue fuel bill. It was a brutal winter and Richie, who had not seen the man in years, did not have the heart to say no. It was a distressing tale of woe that a former professional and proud man—who was now closing in on ninety years of age—did not have enough money to pay basic household bills. Bud informed Richie that the recent economic meltdown did a real number on his retirement portfolio. It is a cautionary tale, I guess, that all too many of us may face in retirement—if we make it that far and are pushing ninety.

Looking back on it now, I suppose that Bud and Carol’s past Nathan’s Thanksgiving repast was a happier, less stressful dining experience than the one they will be having this year. And as a postscript to this story: That sprawling, iconic Nathan’s restaurant on Central Avenue was bulldozed a few years ago to make room for yet another ubiquitous strip mall. There is a much smaller, decidedly pedestrian Nathan’s in the mix of stores on that hallowed ground, so Bud and Carol can dine there this Thanksgiving if they so desire and if, of course, they can afford it.