Faces of the City by Ric Myworld |
Broadway runs 14.1 miles from South to slightly Northeast and through Manhattan from The Battery (formally known as Battery Park) to North through Harlem and Inwood. The East River to the right, the Hudson on the left or West, which separates the island’s Westside from New Jersey. The Eastside of the East River is bordered from South to North by Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx.From Downtown through Midtown people hustle and churn in a frenzy. Pushing and shoving as they wade through the crowds, rushing to make up for the lost time. Obviously running late, they race full-throttle ahead, with little regard for others. Slower commuters often draw angry glares and outbursts of ugly names as they waddle around in the way. In the background, a fierce pounding of a jackhammer’s repetitive rat-tat-tats vibrates the sidewalk. Its driving pulsations shake your whole body, jar your teeth, and spray white dust that burns your nose and tastes like chalk. Vehicles stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic have sat stalled for nearly an hour, emitting fumes that paint the air with a bluish-purple haze and a choking stench of petroleum exhaust. Car horns, distant sirens, and the deafening sound of an ambulance about four blocks up the street try desperately to clear a gridlocked intersection and reach the hospital in time to save someone’s life. Restaurant lines extend outdoors, across carpeted cigarette-butt-covered welcome mats and wind down the walkway as people cluster under awnings that protect only a few from the drizzle. Giant digital screens flash images and messages from walls and storefronts. The biggest screen of all divides the lanes of Broadway. People shop and hangout underneath as others swarm outlets up the street to purchase discounted tickets for matinee performances of the day’s shows. Limousines make stops to recruit tourists with the lure of free tickets and the opportunity for them to become members of studio audiences at the tapings of television shows. A wannabe singing cowboy struts for attention as he crosses the roadway from sidewalk to sidewalk, strumming his guitar. Scantily clad, he wears only tighty-whitey briefs, a white cowboy hat, and boots, with his bareness shining for all to see. Street vendors sell everything from hot dogs to nuts and unlimited varieties of Asian foods. New York cheesecake, known for its varied flavors and simplicity, along with boundless bagel assortments and pizza made in all shapes and sizes. Anything imaginable from local to international. There is something to suit everyone’s taste buds, with some degree of irresistibility. Then, everywhere you look, a bunch of old guys with nothing to do and nowhere to be, hang-out around the newspaper stands for some camaraderie. They fumigate the beaten paths with clouds of smoke from cigars and sweet pipe tobaccos that range between heavenly aromatic scents to the down-right odoriferous or rancid. The senex archetype gents read, tell jokes, and dodge confrontation by avoiding talk of politics. The more simpleminded gather around to watch the shoeshine kings’ artistic-display of agility and skill at work. Soft-bristle brushes swish with the sound of an old soft-shoe and a resembling rhythm of beater-brushes dancing on a snare drum’s skin. Arms flying and twisting, brushes swing and flip until it’s time for the white-fleece strip to whistle, pop, and crack, as it adds the finishing touches with heat from the friction that melds the wax-based polish into a fine-leathers' luster. A five-dollar shine will cost you ten in order not to offend. Thugs scurry like roaches, approaching you at every corner. They flock faster than an army of vultures, trying to sell second-rate designer knock-offs to unsuspecting tourists. They scuffle to grab your dollars before you reach the lasting memories displayed at the paintings and photography stands. The savory aromas from every restaurant capture your senses, so amazing and hypnotic that you can almost taste the seasonings from outside. If you are not hungry as you stroll past, you can bet your enhanced appetite will blossom and race to become ravenous. Welcome to the sights, sounds, and smells of Manhattan, New York! If you have never been to Manhattan, take my advice, everyone needs to visit at least once. I love the mass confusion and the urgency to be first in line, but with so much variety and too many choices, I can only deal with such pressures for a few days at a time. People who live in this turmoil every day are real troopers. Accused of being unfriendly, they get a bad rap. The reality is that they must be stronger, more patient and understanding, and most of all, willing to forgive and forget. Otherwise, there would be mass murders by the millions or at least evil thoughts kindled by the endless challenges. Today, I'm riding the train into the city from Rockville Centre, located out on Long Island. Rows of people stand behind the yellow and red lines waiting to board. The train screeches to a halt. Door locks release with distinct pops as the doors slide open. People shuffle in shoulder-to-shoulder and grab the first available seat. Everyone looks down or away as if trying to avoid eye contact. Once on the train and seated, it begins to roll over the joints of the track with a rhythmic clickety-clack at every connection. The conductor adjusts his hat, clears his throat, and begins to walk down the aisle as he yells in his megaphone voice, “Have your tickets ready.” He takes up the single tickets, scans cards and punches holes in the appropriate return vouchers for patrons who ride regularly. I almost jump out of my seat when a bubbly little man sits down next to me and speaks. He smiles and reassures me that most locals have other things on their minds, are running late, or have become leery and afraid because of the same inflated horror stories about evil characters who prey on mass transit riders. He adamantly guarantees me that in forty-years he has never experienced a frightening incident throughout his countless rides. Well dressed, with a pleasant face and a glowing smile, he is a talented speaker who soon captures my interest and undivided attention. In our short travel time, he tells what seems like his life story. Every word he speaks is entertaining. Such detailed descriptions of how he has made the same trip five, and sometimes, six days a week. Leaving home most mornings by 5:30 to board the train near 6:15 and arrive at Penn Station near 7:00. The huge terminal occupies six-square blocks between Seventh and Eighth Avenues from 31st to 33rd Street. Upon arrival, his routine is to grab a crème-filled doughnut and a coffee before jumping on the subway to be on the job by 8:00. He works until noonish, stops for a short lunch and hurries back to work. He works until 6:30 or 7:00 to allow time for the subways and the station to clear out and slowdown from the maddening 4:00 to 6:00 rush. He rides the train back to Rockville Centre and arrives around 8:00. Then, he walks a few blocks past shops with heavy-metal gratings on the windows and the little bar with the out-of-place rebel flag hanging in its window. He inhales the delightful fragrance of barbecued chicken cooking on burning charcoal and listens as Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” blares into the street. He breathes a sigh of relief as he finds his car where he parked it early in the morning. He drives another fifteen-minutes farther out on Long Island to get home by 8:30. unless he stops in Rockville Centre for a drink at his favorite local hotel bar. On the nights he stops off for a drink there is no need to check the time or be in a hurry to get to the house since his wife will either be asleep or mad if she is even home. The man's name is Tom. As a young boy selling newspapers in the city, he met his wife, Katherine. She was slightly younger than he was and worked in a small, family-owned spice shop. She ground spices and created oils for candles and for cooking. She would often grind his favorite scents and flavors of cinnamon and vanilla. The fragrances would absorb into her hair and clothing, making her smell sweet and fresh like an icing-covered pastry just waiting to be licked. He had first noticed her through the storefront window. Smooth coal-black tresses reflecting off mirror-backed case lights, a shine so silky against her delicate, moisturized skin sparkling like a porcelain doll, accented by her bright-red blouse, rosy-pink cheeks, and glowing turquoise eyes. Every day for weeks he lingered, standing hours outside the shop’s window. Mesmerized by every move of her rounded hips and curvy slender body. His smile widens at the thoughts, as he expresses those joyful memories of watching her walk back and forth throughout the store. And oh, how her pearly-white teeth would glisten from within her full, luscious, perfectly shaped lips, he explains. Many days he would make it to the shop’s front door only to panic and retreat as his fingers would touch the handle. At last, he had finally found the nerve to open the door and walk up to the counter, but when he tried to speak, nothing came out. Then, with a puzzled look on her face, Katherine asked, “May I help you?” Tom still stammered and stuttered, unable to dislodge the frog stuck firmly in his throat. So, when he spoke, only garbled croaks escaped, ranging somewhere between a drowning bullfrog and the rubbing hind legs of two grasshoppers making whoopee. Almost choking on his tongue, he spit-out with a spray, “Ye-e-e-yes, Pleas-e-e-ease, could I p-pp-purchase some ground c-cc-cinnamon and v-ann-nil-la?” The only smells and spices he knew besides salt and pepper. It was love at first smile, the very minute he got near God’s beautiful creature and breathed one whiff of the bouquet of spices absorbed into her clothes, his senses were overwhelmed and rendered helplessly enchanted. Every day for the next two months, he would visit the spice shop as he stocked his parent’s pantry with an assorted collection of spices until he managed to work up the courage to ask her out for an ice cream sundae and a movie. From that day forward, they became an inseparable pair. Sitting quietly, Tom appears to have run out of things to say. Then, slowly and deliberately he shakes his head as if to say no and begins to chuckle as he tells how he has never stopped carrying toothpicks soaked in cinnamon oil. He keeps them rolled in aluminum foil and placed inside a sealed plastic container that helps maintain their potency. He and Katherine even named their daughter Cinnamon. The couple’s three children have all moved away and started their own families. Tom confesses the times he could hardly wait for them to grow up, but now admits how hard it has become to accept the quiet. Neither of them can imagine how their thirty-seven-year marriage has passed so quickly. On the days that Tom goes straight home after work, his faithful companions greet him at the door. His Scottie-dog named Buttons, and his two parrots Bozo and Bruno, one trying to out-squawk the other. After a rub on Button’s head and a whistle or two from his talkative feathered friends, he barely makes it to his La-Z-Boy before falling asleep. Katherine is seldom home. Long ago, she grew tired of being alone and wondering what time Tom would stumble his way home. She stays busy playing golf and bridge with her friends or volunteering to help the needy. She works charity events or anything that will keep her out of an empty house. She only cooks on Sundays these days, other than an occasional loaf of warm cinnamon-nut bread left on the stove. It’s meant as a simple reminder of her special-spiced perfume and the wonderful days way back when she and Tom first met and fell in love. The train stops. Tom and I stand and exit single file. Then, surprisingly, Tom wanders off zig-zagging his way into the crowd without ever looking back or saying a single word. Truly every single area of Manhattan has its own unique scenery and specified scent. Sometimes, you get a whiff of the unforgettably good, but others reek of noxious fumes to make your stomach churn and head swim. Yet, I always find myself curious about what marvelous aroma or sickening stench awaits in the next block. Chinatown, Little Italy, and the delicatessens intermix with remnants from the business next door. The streets lined with flower vendors mingle with the adjacent fish markets. Everything is distinctive in New York, including the people. Boisterous New Yorkers voice their opinions loud and clear, anyplace, anytime. Ready to debate any issue, even those they know nothing about. The week is winding down and the time has flown by. Soon the pilot will announce us next in line for departure. The mighty jet engines will roar, and the plane will speed down the runway and lift off into the wild blue yonder. It will arch as it swings out and climbs over the water, leaving La Guardia and New York as nothing more than a memory. My visit to New York City with so much happening all around me has ignited my senses and invigorated my mind with thoughts long since filed away. Still, with everything I like about the city, it is impossible for this small-town-Kentucky boy to imagine spending a lifetime in a “City that never sleeps.” Especially, a place that leaves so little time for yourself, family, and friends. Over 600,000 people make the daily commute into the city called “The Big Apple,” and each one shares a busy lifestyle. It’s a grueling pace, but my bet is that few would change a thing. As most, still believe the famous saying found on countless bumper stickers and T-shirts worn worldwide. The slogan that expresses their true feelings, and reads, “I Love New York!”
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Ric Myworld
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