Remains

Sometimes, little things get to me.

Once such instance happened the other day as I walked home from work and came upon a dumpster in the street. What drew my attention was a sad-looking elderly man standing next to it while a little girl excitedly pulled a game of Operation out of the pile, saying, "Look, it's a real Operation game, Grandpa!" He nodded at her, but seemed uninterested in her discovery. As I approached, I saw the dumpster was full of records, books, games, toys and some other interesting items. This stuff looked pretty good - too good to be in the trash.

Then I saw this envelope...

It looked important, so I pulled it off the pile.



It was a social security check.

That's when the elderly man turned to me and, with a vacant look on his face, said, "He was such a nice man."



He went on to tell me the owner of the contents had lived in the building behind us for many decades and had passed away. The new landlord had bagged up the entire contents of the apartment that morning and threw it all down the stairs. No one had come to clean out the apartment, sell anything, give things to charity or even salvage anything of value.



By this time, people were gathering around the dumpster and pulling things out. There were some very nice books a young man was collecting in a stack. The little girl pulled out a Battleship game. The old man said there were many bags at the bottom of the dumpster and seemed to be waiting for people to dig down far enough to reach them.

I pushed aside a 1977 Saturday Evening Post featuring Jane Pauley and pulled out a black book with 'Archdiocese of New York' stamped in gold on the cover. Inside was a diploma. This was not right. I showed it to the man and he sucked in his breath. "That's him!" he said. "He was so nice...I can't believe they did this." He said he knew the family lived in Staten Island, so I gave him the diploma and said if he couldn't pass it on to them, I would.

In the photo below, the paper under the horse is a letter regarding a last will and testament, which appeared to be that of the deceased man's father. This was getting to be too upsetting, so I walked away.



The following day, I hoped to find the dumpster empty, its contents taken away by people who would enjoy the games, books, records and toys. There wasn't much left, but my heart sank when I saw this:



The man's cane.



*I did take one thing away...

Any guesses?

See more dumpster photos here.

You'll have to use your imagination

I saw the most beautiful thing this morning.

First of all, it was cold - about 20 degrees - and I was pissed because winter has been dragging on for what seems like years now and I've had enough. The buttons are falling off my coat, but it's already March, so I keep thinking I won't have to wear the coat much longer, but then the temperature shoots back down to zero and the wind bites me through the open button holes. So, walking to work this morning, I was feeling pretty grumpy and bitter.

Adding insult to injury, the sun shone as brightly as, well, the SUN. Blazing away, blinding me at every turn, but providing absolutely no warmth. You might say it was being a tease and that just irritated me more. So, I kept to the shady side of the street so as not to burn my corneas and muttered to myself as the wind was only that much colder in the shade than on the - heh - sunnier side of the street.

I kept up this grouchy attitude all the way down Thompson Street when, in an instant, that negative cloud completely evaporated.

That's when I saw him: a street cleaner, bundled up in gray coveralls, gloves, scarf and a red sweatshirt with the pulled hood up over his head. One hand gripped his trash can on wheels and the other a broom handle. His face was turned up and towards a beam of sunlight that cut through the gap between two tenements on an otherwise dark street. He appeared to have stopped abruptly, maybe walking along until that beam of light hit him on the face and BAM, his feet anchored right to the sidewalk.

The thing that stopped me in my tracks was the expression on his face. Eyes closed, mouth blissfully smiling, he was the picture of happiness and contentment. In an instant, I was envious, then glad, then feeling it myself. I crept closer and he didn't move. Nothing was going to tear him from that enchanted embrace. As I walked past, I smiled up at him and he continued to grin at the sun. I continued smiling all the way down the block and when I turned back, a shadow had fallen over the sidewalk and he was gone.

Much ado about nothing

There are times when the city goes quiet for no apparent reason. Last night was one of those times and it never fails to scare the hell out of me.

It was a regular Tuesday evening around rush-hour. The sky was that shade of sapphire blue that only lasts a few minutes between sunset and sundown. The air was not too cold, but just chilly enough for a jacket: perfect walking weather. Ahh, what a lovely evening. But why is it so quiet?!



Where is everyone? Where are all the cars?? The entrance to the Holland Tunnel, normally clogged with honking cars and buses, is empty. The lone traffic cop stands in the middle of the intersection with his hands flapping at his sides. Does he know something I don't?



I head along my usual route and nothing seems to be out of order - the shops are open and a few people wander the streets, but there is an unignorable absence of sound that increases my panic with every block. I get to Houston Street - normally 5 lanes of revving engines - and it's so dead, tumbleweeds could actually take root in the middle of the road. WTF?!

I look around me and the few people out walking are oblivious to my frantic state. If something was happening, they would be panicked, too, right? There's a guy on his phone and he's talking about nothing. If there were something amiss, he would most certainly be screaming into his phone. Right?

Right?



I reach Broadway and almost laugh because there is - you guessed it - absolutely no traffic. None. Did Bloomberg pedestrianize all of downtown and not send me the memo? Ok, ok, I'm just driving myself crazy now. Crazy because I'm not hearing/seeing traffic. Anyone in their right mind would be celebrating this moment, not having a fit over it.

With a few deep breaths, I relax and start to enjoy this mile-long walk on a beautiful pre-spring evening. The air smells fresh, I pick up my step and, then, suddenly, from every direction, comes the blaring mwah mwah mwah of fire engines. Many fire engines.

Oh. My. God. Fire engines! As if I'd never heard fire engines before, my heart skips a beat. One engine flies north, another west, followed by another FDNY vehicle with flashing red lights and they pass right by the fire house on Great Jones Street, sirens wailing so loud, I can't hear my own footsteps. More fire engines race down 4th Street and up Bowery. Are they headed to my house? Omigod, they must be going TO MY HOUSE!



[Side note: I must blame this irrational thought on the firemen who came to my elementary school and scared the crap out of me with their film about the little girl who walked home from school one afternoon to find her house on fire and her parents burning to death right in front of her because she left a pot-holder on the stove. I think there are several variations of this fear-inducing tale, but those firefighters succeeded in teaching me to, 1. never use pot-holders, and 2. always assume it's MY house that's burning.]

Totally panicked now, I practically run the last two blocks to my street and round the corner only to find...

Nothing.



Because out of nothing, only something can grow...

Happy Birthday to Master Monty!

Monty is known to blog from time to time.

Candlelight vigil for 35 Cooper Square

TONIGHT!

More info can be found at the Bowery Alliance of Neighbors.

Read the history of this building at Jeremiah's Vanishing New York.

And, another tribute over at EV Grieve.

On the bright side...

While we're on the subject of Mars...

Vivienne Gucwa has published a wonderful essay on Mars Bar that is a must-read, especially for anyone trying to get a fix on what it is people are so upset about.  Her photos are beautiful and capture that late-afternoon feeling, when the bar seems to exhale, relishing in that moment of calm before the next wave of chaos comes crashing through the door.


photo by Vivienne Gucwa

You can see more of her Mars Bar photos here.

I'm still struggling with the thought of an East Village without Mars.  I stopped in on Christmas Day, expecting it to be filled with sadness and depression, but to my relief, it wasn't at all.  In fact, the bar was full and when I walked in, I was greeted with many familiar smiles and cheerful hellos. 

I think, for me, this marked the last stage of grief in mourning the loss of Mars:  Acceptance.  I'm pretty sure I covered all the other stages in just a few days prior:

Denial - Noooooo!  This can't be happening, there must be a mistake!

Anger - WTF?!  Damn developers!  Does no one care about anything?!  F-ing gentrification, money, greed, Bloomberg, blah blah blah!!

Bargaining - Ok, maybe something can be worked out.  Mars can stay open during construction...we'll just find another nearby bar...if I can just win the lotto, I'll buy the whole lot and leave it as-is.

Depression - Hey, bartender, how about another round?  Keep 'em coming...

Acceptance -  Merry Christmas.  Happy New Year.  It's just a room; the patrons and Mars spirit live on, and will always outshine anything that comes to that corner.

If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose.  

--Charles Bukowski

More to come, stay tuned...

Related: Is there life after Mars?

Related: Roy

Sunday evening in Mars

Ice, ice, baby!

Just as all those snow storms were getting so boring, Mother Nature went and sent us some ice...which she quickly took away just after we went out to play in it.

Anyway, it was fun while it lasted.







You can see more icy photos here.

89 Clinton Street

As I remember it:

 

Does anyone else remember it this way?  The door caught my eye every time I walked by.

Google Street View shows how much has changed (that's the same entry, beneath the blue awning):


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