(Originally
published 1/22/18)
Temperatures
surpassed fifty degrees on both Saturday and Sunday. It is the
January thaw,
I guess. Daytime highs barely reached twenty a week ago. In both the cold times
and not-so-cold times, I visited Battery Park. And what a difference a week
made.
Last week,
tourists in the vicinity of the World Trade Center were hard to come by. Roaming
around that blustery part of town with wind chills near zero is not for the
faint of heart—take my word for it. Lingering at water’s edge was not
recommended. Instead, I found myself at a pizza shop to simultaneously satisfy
my craving and rest my chilled and weary bones. The place had a large sign in
its interior: “The Best Pizza in New York.” Suffice it to say, it was not the
best pizza in town, but I have tasted worse—
a whole lot worse. My
biggest problem with this pizza parlor was its two doors, which were ajar.
Seeing one’s breath at the lunch table does not exactly enhance dining
ambiance. Interestingly, a couple of Yelp reviewers of the place complained
about its lack of air-conditioning and stifling dining room in the summertime.
Such are
the sands of time. It will be hot as hell soon enough. Last week, I noticed a
missing Nathan’s hot dog cart, which was not in its familiar spot on Vesey
Street. I assumed it would not return until spring. But lo and behold, it was
back in business this weekend. Yesterday, I could not resist a couple of their
“famous” frankfurters: crunchy, salty, and perversely tasty. However, I passed
on their equally “famous” greasy crinkle French fries.
That gastro ship has sailed.
The New
York City homeless population is also less visible on the streets on the
bitterest of cold days. They are forced into shelters, I presume, because there
is real estate that belongs to homeless men and women—specific spots where the
same folks can always be found. The balmier weather brought everybody back.
In the
arctic weather, subway cars and underground stations house more homeless people
than usual. A week ago, I entered the last car of a Bronx-bound Number 1 train
on my return home and found three passengers in it—all homeless. Two of the
three appeared to be a couple who were animatedly raving to one another. I
sensed a degree of menace in the
land down under and, as I was in no mad
rush to get home, I exited the train at the next stop. What do I find but a
homeless man encamped right outside the door. I could not therefore wait for
the next train and its last car at that end of the station. So, I walked to
other end. It was there that I discovered a shuttered women’s bathroom—a relic
of a kinder and gentler past in the big city.
Speaking
of the homeless, a man entered the subway yesterday looking, smelling, and
behaving like he was on the destitute side of the ledger. But he did not ask
for any money and was carrying a working smartphone. He strolled through the
car and got off at the next stop. Shortly thereafter, another fellow got on,
took a seat, and was alternatively laughing and ranting for several stops—the
kind of guy that, were I alone, would force me to employ
the Charles Manson
Rule and
make like a tree and leave. But I was not alone. After a while,
the chap got up and sinisterly repeated: “I do not have a job. Can anybody give
me some money?” He appeared angry and unfocused as he raced through the car and
into the next one. Panhandling was not his thing.
It is a
strange age we live in. I saw a homeless guy on the street with all his
accoutrements, including a sign elaborating on his sorry state. He was talking
on a cell phone when I passed. And in the frosty pizza shop, a teenager ate his
pizza alongside me. He was engrossed with his device the whole time. Likewise
captivated by a device, a friend met him there. The pair somehow managed to
eat, converse, and make plans for the day without ever looking up. I was
impressed.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
