NYC Midnight Madness Short Story Challenge

Trace of an Age

The sweet raw earth parted graciously, as the Smith men created a niche in it for their beloved mother.

As Ezekiel moved his shovel farther into the dirt he hit a hard object. He leaned down into the fresh grave and retrieved it. Ezekiel wiped the moist earth off of the object.

"“What is it?" The father asked.

"I'’m not sure Father. It seems to be made of some sort of…metal and wood."”

"“Metal and wood?!? Don'’t be ridiculous. Those materials haven'’t been used in years, not since…"

"“Father, I think it is not of our time."” Ezekiel turned the object over in his hands and continued to inspect it.

"“Well, get up out of there son. Let'’s lay your mother to rest."”

Ezekiel climbed out of the hole and placed the strange object onto the warm grass. They had acted out the family ritual that is customary when a member passes away. Now that the hole was dug on the family land, the mother simply needed to be laid into it. Ezekiel and Malachai gently laid their mother into her final resting place and the three men kneeled on the ground and tossed the fresh earth by hand. Once the hole was completely covered they all spent adequate time patting the soil down. The ritual of burial was physical in nature. No words had to be said, no tears needed to be shed.

* * * * * * *

Late the next evening Ezekiel was preparing to send a communication to his wife to let her know that he would be staying the remainder of the week with his father and brother. A glistening on an end table in the living room caught his eye. It was the mysterious object he had found the day before.

Ezekiel approached the table and with some trepidation, picked the object up and held it close to his face. It smelled foreign and metallic. He still could not figure out what his ancestors would have used this strange thing for or when exactly it was from. The wood seemed to be a handle of some sort.

"I can'’t figure out what that is either," suddenly a voice announced.

"“I thought you were asleep Malachai."

"“No, I took a walk around the property."

"“Hmm. It seems to be a vessel of some kind, don't you think?"

"“I considered it. Father and I discussed it earlier. He thinks you may be right that it is a relic from another time. But, he believes it is from before the winters came."

"“Really? That long ago?"

"“Yes. He wants to bring it to his friend in town, you know, the one with the shop of rare oddities. Maybe he will have a better idea as to what exactly it is."

"“And more importantly, what it was used for."”

The brothers handed it back and forth to each other for a short time. They were both thoroughly intrigued and drawn to this foreign item. Before they knew it awhile had gone by and they both decided to go off to bed. Ezekiel completely forgot to send a communication to his wife. His mind had clouded over with curiosity.

* * * * * * *

The three men walked into town and approached the shop. The sign read "“William'’s House of Rare Oddities." Ezekiel had the object in a small canvas bag. William Jones was expecting them and hastily jumped onto his porch.

"“Well, Mr. Smith, it is a pleasure to see you and your boys. It has been too long. Come in, come in. I cannot wait to see what you have found."

The three walked into the shop and were immediately overwhelmed by the amount of oddities that covered every square inch of the place.

"“Mr. Jones has been in this business for many years sons. He has traveled all over the land to gather and inspect all of the rare objects you see."

"“Yes, well, I wouldn'’t really call it a business. Isn'’t much money in it, you know? People aren't interested in rarities anymore. I keep them for myself. They are my passion in life, keep me going."

Ezekiel handed Mr. Jones the canvas bag as he continued to examine the many objects that now surrounded he and his family. Malachai had moved into a rear area of the shop.

Mr. Jones took the bag and bounced it to get a feeling for the weight of the object. He took out a small pair of spectacles from his pocket and moved over to his desk. He turned a desk light on and removed the contents from the bag.

"“Well…hmm."

"“I do believe it must be from before the winters. Take a look at the craftsmanship. Wood and metal? I can'’t even imagine the last time those materials were used."

"“Mr. Smith, I think you may be correct. The construction is very rare for nowadays. Well, unheard of actually."

"“But, what do you think it was used for?"” Ezekiel was getting anxious. "“My brother and I think it may be a vessel of some sort. But, a vessel for what…"

"“It appears that it could have been a sort of vessel." ” Mr. Jones moved his rough and aged hands over the item. "Gee, it is a beauty."

Malachai spoke from the back of the shop, "“Mr. Jones, what are these?"

Mr. Jones hesitated for a moment, lost in thought. Suddenly, he came around and put the object carefully down on his desk and pulled himself out of his chair.

As he approached the rear of the shop he smiled.

"“Ah yes. See, this may be of interest to you boys. These objects are all made out of varying types of metals."” He removed one from a rack on the wall. "“This one here, this is one of my favorites."”

As Mr. Jones handed Malachai a strange metal object, Ezekiel took a look at him. He was not like other men. He was overweight and rough looking. He looked as though he did not keep up with regular shaving practices either. And the spectacles, he had not seen anyone wear those since…

"“What is the purpose of this?"” Malachai held the fairly long and thin metal object in his hands and examined it. He noticed the end was quite sharp.

"“Be careful with that boy. It'’s pretty sharp. I found this many years ago. I've spent years trying to figure out what it may have been used for. I believe it is a device of some type, to help one accomplish things. I believe that it can be inserted into other objects to open them up."

"“Why would anyone need this? We have technology that allows us to…"

"“Yes, I know. But, this too, I believe, is from before the winters. Times were very different before the cold came. Technology was just being discovered and then when people were forced to remain indoors for so long…"”

"“Mr. Jones, this is all hearsay. Do not fill my boys'’ heads with your stories."” Mr. Smith spoke in a very forthright manner and in a maintained tone.

"“Ok…I know. People don'’t want to know about life before the winters. If you want answers, you must listen!"

The three men noticed a strange change in Mr. Jones behavior. He seemed uncomfortable and possibly overheated. His face was turning red, yet he had not exerted himself at all. His voice raised. The men all looked quite puzzled.

"“Ehem."” Mr. Jones cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "“If you really want to know…I have concluded, in my extensive studies, that certain objects were used for…defense purposes."”

"“Against animals? Why would they need devices to do that?"” Malachai looked utterly confused.

"“No. Against other human beings."

"“Now Mr. Jones, you know that is ridiculous."” Mr. Smith interjected in an even mannered tone.

Ezekiel had been taking all of this in. He was intrigued. Mr. Jones had very unevolved emotions. He was scattered and passionate. But why?

"“Mr. Jones? If I may…"”

"“Of course Ezekiel, by all means, go ahead."

Ezekiel retrieved the metal object in question from Malachai and examined it closely.

"“Why would humans use an object, as crude as this, to ward off other humans and why did they need to at all?"

"“I have found very conclusive evidence that humans did not always get along, not the way we do now. Many of the objects you see around you in this shop were, again in theory, used for some type of protection. Protection on this crude level, is still hard and sharp enough to pierce human flesh."

"“That is preposterous." Again Mr. Smith interrupted with his opinion.

"“Mr. Smith, please let me finish."

Ezekiel noticed once more that Mr. Jones coloring was darkening and now his hands were a bit shaky. He could not look away from this highly emotional man. He did not understand why someone would have these reactions.

"“If you pierced another human's flesh…would they…what would happen to them?"

"“The wound could be fatal."

"You mean that humans hastened someone's passing?" Malachai was flabbergasted.

"“Yes, with objects just like this."

Ezekiel was awe struck like his brother. Currently, his father, he noticed, had silenced and was watching this interaction with great interest. Ezekiel looked over at the desk where his object was lying. He mulled over how his own found rarity could be used in such a primitive manner.

"“I believe that human beings had gatherings, to settle disputes, where they used crude items like this to defend themselves against one another."

"“Were they deliberately trying to do such things to one another? Again, Malachai was the only Smith speaking.

"“Yes. They were."

Suddenly, Ezekiel interjected, "“What about the object we brought here today? Could this be one of these things that was used to hasten…I mean..."”

"“Well, let me see." Mr. Jones approached his desk again and put on his spectacles. "Hmm. The elements in the design are similar to those of other objects that I believe were used for protection."

Ezekiel felt a strange surge. A rush of blood to the head. What was this strange feeling? He felt suddenly hot and scattered, he could not think straight.

"“Ezekiel, are you feeling alright son?" His father asked.

"“Maybe I should sit down."” Ezekiel backed onto a crude looking stool.

"“There would have been many ways in which this object was used to damage or even bring death to human beings. You said you thought it was a vessel. It could have held something that was fatal to others. It is heavy and awkward. I have found that often these types of objects are very similar."

Ezekiel was listening intently to Mr. Jones. The bizarre excitement that had taken hold of him was pulsing throughout his body now.

Malachai came closer and now all four men were standing nearer together.

"“I now understand why the people of this town have no respect for you, Mr. Jones,"” Mr. Smith began. "“Running around making outrageous and unfounded claims like the ones your making now…it just does not make any sense. You have filled your life with oddities and you have become one of them."

Ezekiel was shocked by his father'’s blunt comment and looked at Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones looked dumbfounded at first and then all of they emotional symptoms Ezekiel had noticed earlier started to metastasize. His entire body became rigid and suddenly his fist came down upon his desk with a boom.

"“Mr. Smith, you came into my shop, my home and asked me to take a look at an object you found. If you don'’t like my explanations than why exactly are you here?!"

The Smith men did not know what to do, they had never experienced this emotion from a human being before.

"“Mr. Jones, I assure you, I was only speaking my opinion freely. What is the difficulty in my doing so?"” Mr. Smith offered. "“There is no need for such physical responses."

"“Get out! Get out of my shop."

The men quickly gathered themselves and prepared to leave. Ezekiel turned and grabbed his found object.

"“No, that stays here."” Mr. Jones grabbed the object away from Ezekiel.

"“That is ours. Ezekiel found it on our land and we will take it back with us." Mr. Smith informed Mr. Jones.

"“No, no you will not. You people have no respect for such objects. You have no desire to learn from what they are. You will leave now…without this relic."

Mr. Smith approached Mr. Jones with an extended hand to retrieve the object. Suddenly and without warning, Mr. Jones reached out and pushed Mr. Smith away with some force. The Smith men were horrified.

"“Do not put your hand on my father in that manner."” Malachai announced.

"“As I have said several times to all of you, this is my home and my shop, I will do as I see fit!" Mr. Jones turned toward Malachai and approached him straight on.

Ezekiel was reeling with feelings he had not felt before. As Mr. Jones raised a hand at Malachai, Ezekiel drew near behind him. He grabbed at his mysterious object and retrieved it.

Mr. Jones was so astonished by this that he ignored Malachai and turned his attention to Ezekiel. He came at Ezekiel with much force and emotion. In an almost instinctual manner, Ezekiel raised the hand bearing the object and pushed it at Mr. Jones. The object discharged a loud sound and Mr. Jones fell to the floor with a thud.

All three men looked at each other.

"“What was that? What happened to Mr. Jones?" Malachai was confused and scared.

Ezekiel felt the cylindrical part of the object, it was hot. He put it down on the desk and knelt down to Mr. Jones. Blood began spilling from underneath him.

"“Oh my word. Is that blood…how…why??"” Malachai said in a louder tone than normal.

Mr. Smith joined his son on the floor and felt Mr. Jones'’ body. It was lifeless.

"“Father…what did I do?" Ezekiel began to cry.

"“Son, you did nothing. The objects that Mr. Jones decided to fill his life with are the only things in this world he respected or loved. He believed they hastened the process of death. Look, it has. His theory is proved correct. We should rejoice that in his demise, he has proven his worthiness."

Ezekiel looked up at his father's face. It was serious and convincing.

"“Come boys. Let us prepare to initiate the rituals. We will put Mr. Jones into the land that he owns, just as he wanted."

Ezekiel had seldom cried in his lifetime. Especially not since he had become an adult. He wiped the tears from his face and composed himself. Malachai gathered up some muslin fabric from the corner of the store and they all began the ritual of death.

Keys to Surviving a Post Blizzard NYC

• Wear high waterproof boots. Once the snow starts to melt a little bit, rivers of black icky water fill the potholes of NYC and you don’t want to be the one with the gross wet sock all day.
  
• Heads up! As the sun heats up, so do the ice on the buildings. I almost got hit with a small glacier falling from the Bank of New York Building. Scary.
  
• Before leaving your apartment, have a plan. Make sure you know how to get to the subway. It helps to dig a series of tunnels from the sidewalk to the street.
  
• Avoid the yellow snow. The snow seems so beautiful on the first day, but then it becomes city snow. It will turn strange shades of yellow, sometimes brown and then eventually a sickly black. (Another reason you want high waterproof boots).
  
• Is it really a blizzard if I still get my New York Times? For some reason, even the day after a record breaking snowfall, I continue to receive my New York Times. It’s more reliable than the US Postal Service.

What the hell is “Curling” anyway?

Someone recently told me about “Curling” and why they thought it was a strange and slightly amusing Olympic sport. My thoughts were: lifting weights can’t be that strange as an Olympic sport. I soon came to realize that “Curling” was not lifting weights. As I surfed past NBC’s coverage of the XX Olympic Games today, I happened upon “Curling.” The word strange cannot begin to describe this “sport.”

From what I observed, “curling” consists of a team of three people. The game takes place on an area of ice. It almost looks like a shuffleboard court. One team member takes this “rock” (which looks like a slightly smooshed snowball cookie with a handle on the top) kneels down and pushes off in a lunging kneel and slides across the ice and lets go of this “rock.” They all appear to be wearing sneakers. The “pusher” wears a black sneaker and a white sneaker (much like a Ked). The remaining two team members are each holding something that looks like a Swiffer. They wait until the “rock” is launched and furiously “swiff” directly in front of the sliding “rock” without touching it. I think they are trying to “curl” the “rock” to take a certain course. The “rock’s” final destination should be inside of this target like thing at the end of the ice.

I do not understand why this is an Olympic sport. Apparently, this sport has been around since 1867. The hotbed of “Curling” activity at the time was surprisingly, New York City. Today, there is a curling club about 12 miles from Yankee Stadium. It is extremely strange to watch and from an aerial view at the Olympic Games, it looks a bowling alley with people holding brooms.

In watching this for a little while, I have come to the realization that this is probably the only Olympic sport that I could actually accomplish.

What was lost on "Munich"?

Munich is a wonderful depiction of a time in history when politics were confused and the consequences were vicious. Unfortunately, if you are not familiar with the finer political nuances of the early 1970’s, you may be missing some of Munich. After sitting for three hours, one may think one wouldn’t miss a thing, but there is a vague veil that hangs over this film and it takes research either before or after it to pull it back. The film is peppered with rich and beautifully acted scenes masterly directed by Steven Spielberg.

The acting is superb. Eric Bana (The Hulk, Troy) is surprisingly dead-on in his role of Avner, a young Israeli working for his government as the head of a group of five men, killers hired to settle the score with the Palestinians who orchestrated the Munich murders. At first sight you may keep picturing the Hulk, but that feeling soon wears off as he saunters into his character and becomes Avner. Geoffrey Rush (Shine, Shakespeare in Love) plays Ephraim, the man who assembles the team of assassins. As usual, his performance is seamless and wonderfully calculated.

Munich tells the tragic story of the hostage situation and murder of eleven Israelis at the 1972 Olympics in Munich. The film is primarily centered around the Israeli government’s response to this violent attack. The goal: to locate and kill the eleven people allegedly responsible for the murders. A team of five men from very different backgrounds and expertise is created by the Israeli government in a very covert operation. They are given names and pictures and are told to find and kill these eleven men. None of the 5 men has any experience in assassination, but each is skilled in something useful. One man is an expert bomb builder, one a master forger, one we are told is a “worrier” (he winds up cleaning up the gauche crime scenes that the novice assassins leave), etc. These men are not professionals in the government killing scene. The inexperience and stagger in which they approach their jobs is natural and undeniable. The scenes in which subjects are found and ultimately murdered are fraught with emotion and violence. The first of these scenes is a nerve wracking experience (not to mention watching it). Men that have never killed another before, struggle with their emotions and morals as they choose between doing what they have been hired to do and doing what they feel they should. It is a highly energized scene that begins in clumsy indecision and ends decidedly in bloodshed.

Audience reactions to the film were audible. I viewed the film at BAM in Brooklyn on a Sunday afternoon. I purchased my tickets ahead of time out of habit, but thought that I would not have a problem finding a seat. To my amazement, the medium sized theatre was filled by show time. As the tension rose, so did the audiences vocals. One could hear small squeamish groans during the Munich killings. A particular scene, in which a bomb takes the characters, and audience, by surprise resulted in loud gasping and obvious jumping in seats. The audience, on this particular Sunday, were enthralled and openly mesmerized by the film onscreen. I looked around at the faces around me at some point and realized I was surrounded by a truly captive audience.

The first scene in which the five man team bands is around a dinner table, is an interesting portrait of men fumbling to grasp what they have been asked to do and bonding together over a homemade meal. The scene seems all too familiar, like a family gathering or a group of friends chatting and joking. Though Spielberg uses a cheap montage shortly after that goes over the top to push the audience into an emotional reaction to this group of men. The dinner scene alone would have had a better effect without feeling like excess. The necessary feeling was already there.

The film runs 164 minutes. I felt that for the length that it was, too many things remained vague and unanswered. The drawing out of the response to Munich and the killings that followed was time that could have been used to further explain the politics in slightly better detail surrounding these events. A younger audience or one without prior knowledge of the international politics of 1972 will be at a loss after this film ends. Though it is an expertly written, directed and acted film, Munich winds up being slightly inaccessible to a large audience of Americans.

I was on the fence when I left the theatre because I felt it was well worth my $10, but I wished that I had known more about the subject matter going in to the film. Much like a Broadway show, I wondered if I had been better off with a synopsis explaining the events surrounding the Munich killings. In the end, Munich is a very well acted and directed film. For entertainment’s sake alone it is worth seeing. If you are a fan of films, you will be entranced by the beauty and loss that is depicted in this haunting tale woven by Steven Spielberg. You just may leave wanting more.

Subway Series: Lost & Found

The subway is an overwhelming environment for the senses. There is too much stimulation to take it all in. The only way to shield yourself from the unnatural fact that you are herded closely together with a bunch of people you don’t know in a tube traveling at fast speeds is to read something intently or zone in to you iPod and ignore everyone and everything else around you. In the morning I am usually too tired to notice anything around me and just fall into the coma of my newspaper.

One morning I was able to get a much coveted seat and was deep into my ritual when suddenly a young woman tapped me on the shoulder. It honestly took me a few seconds to come out of my haze and respond. She asked if she could possibly have my seat because she was feeling very dizzy and sick. I told her that she could absolutely take it. Once she sat down I stood next to her (by the door) and started asking her questions. Was she alright? Was she pregnant? I soon began to realize that she was having an anxiety attack. Since I know the feeling all too well, I began talking her through it. I told her it was important to regulate her breathing and that we were almost over the Manhattan Bridge (close to the first stop in Manhattan). I asked her where she was getting off and if she was going to work. Once we reached Grand Street, she looked as though she was beginning to calm. Still, I couldn’t leave her side. I felt a connection with her. I have gone through what she was going through and I could not step aside and go back into my zombie routine like everyone else on that train. I made sure I stayed right next to her, even when the door opened I maintained my ground. When I got off at 42nd Street, I wished her well and was on my way. I thought about her during the following days and wondered if she was ok.

A week later, as I waited in zombie mode on the platform for the D train, a young woman approached me. She said she was the girl that I gave the seat to that morning last week. She also said that she wanted to thank me because the things I had said really helped her feel better and calm. It was very heartfelt. In the very compact span of time that the morning rush hour provides, I explained that I had also gone through anxiety attacks myself. She confirmed that she did have them on the subway once in awhile. Suddenly, the train arrived and we were off to our respective places in the car. A few days later I saw her again and I introduced myself. We spoke briefly again and when the train arrived we entered and put on our iPods and picked up our newspapers.

Over the past few weeks we have been having these brief “platform meetings.” I have been talking to her almost daily. Last week we even chatted all the way to Bryant Park. She shared the news of her engagement with me and showed off her ring.

New York City is a hard place to make friends. The last place you think that you will meet a potential pal is the subway. Sometimes if you put your paper down for a few minutes, you just may.

Black Cloud Over The D.R. -- Part I

Is there a black cloud really following me? When I was a little girl, my father always used to refer to this “black cloud” following him around. I didn’t really get it at the time, but as I got older I became very familiar with the black cloud that follows people with my last name around. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but you miss the train by .5 seconds, get gypped out of your reservations after you’ve driven 5 ½ hours to get to the hotel, get hit in the head with multiple pigeons enough times and you would be paranoid, too.

On our vacation to the Dominican Republic, Derek and I rented a car with 4 wheel drive, thinking we could “off road” around the “real” D.R. Well, after we’d driven 3 hours into the “real” D.R. -- we “really” broke down. The car wouldn’t start, in fact it wouldn’t move. We were on a beach with D.R. locals on their weekend holidays. Problem numero uno: I only spoke very broken Spanish…Derek didn’t speak any. This is where it got hairy. Some guys came over to help us and we think they said one was even a mechanic! But, alas no one could figure out what was wrong with our car. Problem two: the phone card we bought for our D.R. cell phone did not work. We had bought the wrong kind somehow or another. I tried desperately to see if the woman who ran the villa we were staying at (she had given us the phone as part of our stay) had programmed her number into the phone. No luck. Or should I say, black cloud? After standing around in the mind splitting heat for an hour or two, Derek and the husband of the nice family who was helping us went to look for a phone. When they finally reached the only “bar” that had a phone, Derek stepped into the steamy thatched roof shack and was immediately met with Dominican men who were very unhappy to see white tourist boy invade their local party space. He was pushed and shoved and yelled at (though he didn’t have a clue what they said to him). The man who was with him, Orlando, led him to the bar and asked the tender where this alleged phone was. Derek and Orlando were soon led to a back, back, back room of the shack/bar. In this room was a cot and a bucket/urinal filled with urine. After the initial shock of all of that, Derek realized that YES there was a phone! Orlando dialed the number we had for the rental company that we got the car from. After a heated conversation, Orlando looked at the receiver and then at Derek and said simply, “De nada.” This was a very universal thing to say, as Derek knew, we were fucked.

Orlando wound up towing us to the “resort” we had been looking for all along. What was once hailed by Lonely Planet as a bohemian paradise was, well, a shithole set against a backdrop of paradise. We bid Orlando goodbye and thanked him profusely. Derek even tried to compensate him with some pesos, as we had found that every single person in the D.R. thus far on our trip had tried to obtain our pesos some way or another. We soon realized that we were dealing with a real Dominican working class guy (kinda like us) because he refused the money and was just glad to help us in any way he could.

We approached our “bohemian paradise” with much trepidation. I decided enough was enough and walked across the dirt road amongst stray chickens and dogs to the door. I scanned the establishment and saw that people had been bussed in from their resort locations and were from all over the world. I finally spotted someone who looked like they were in charge and more importantly…looked like they may speak English.

To be continued…

Sunday Night Subway Ride

If you always sit or walk with your mouth shut and eyes straight ahead or head buried in a book, you’ll miss one of the best things about New York: the quirks and idiosyncrasies. One of the best sources for these is the people.

I was riding home on the subway from the movies last night with Derek. It was a quiet ride at first. Being that it was so damn hot in the subway station, it was refreshing to get on to the subway car and sit down in the cold (imagine that!). A conductor emerged from behind the sliding door with a cool and coy smile on his face.

One of a pair of young girls asked, “Are you the one talking?” The man smiled and nodded. We had clearly walked in on some sort of joke or something because the girls had big smiles on their faces, along with a handful of other passengers.

The toasty tanned and slightly sunburned girl said, “You’re funny.”

The girl she was with was smiling and laughing, too, but clearly wasn’t as outspoken as her counterpart.

The man thanked her and said, “Looks like someone got too much sun today.”

The girl put her hands to her cheeks and retorted, “I’m actually blushing for some reason” as her band-aid ridden feet played with her sandals.

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed out loud, it was so adolescent and yet the girl was clearly too old for all of that.

“Now it’s my turn.” The conductor said as we all looked up and saw the large man’s face turn a deep shade of crimson.

I laughed out loud a second time, this time Derek joined me and so did a few of the passengers including the two girls.

The man disappeared behind his sliding door as the train approached a station.

“This station is Lawrence Street Metrotech. Transfer for the M train. Remember passengers, turn that frown upside down! Smiling burns more calories than frowning!”

Our fellow passengers giggled, as did we. The man reemerged after the station stop.

“We’re just wondering what you’re going to say at our stop,” the outspoken girl said.

“What’s your stop?”

“Union Street.” I tapped Derek, as this was our stop, as well.

“I know something about Union Street. It’s between 6th and 7th Avenues.”

Everyone looked slightly confused and suddenly I remembered something. I had been on a train about 9 months earlier approaching Union Street when a jovial conductor announced that it was the home of Brooklyn Fire House # 1. I remember telling Derek how funny and nice it was to have an informative conductor. It was like being on a tour. It made me smile because it just makes the ride home nicer when you have someone like that announcing funny little facts about the otherwise mundane station stops that you hear everyday.

“The firehouse!” I said. I immediately felt like a dork, so I further explained, “I’ve been on one of your trains before.” People started laughing again, including Derek and I. The girls pointed at me in a “see we told you” type way and laughed along with us.

“Correct!” Then he went on to explain how the firehouse on Union Street between 6th and 7th Avenues was the first to use “squads”. I can’t remember all of the specifics, but it was in fact that same information I had heard 9 months earlier. He told about friends he had at that firehouse and how 11 of them had perished on 9/11. Suddenly, people who were quiet earlier were joining in the conversation.

An older man dressed in a black suit that was busting at the seams spoke up, “I was on a train at Cortlandt Street that morning. Right when the towers fell. I got off the train and there was smoke and fire in the station. The conductor’s were screaming at us to get back on the train. I did and we took off.”

The conductor suddenly remembered his conducting duties and excused himself while he closed the sliding door once again.

“Union Street. Transfer for the M train. Home of Brooklyn Firehouse # 1…” I didn’t hear everything because we were getting up to get off. As we passed the small open window on the outside of the train we all waved to the conductor.

As Derek and I were walking up the stairs to 4th Avenue I said, “I know what I’m writing in my blog tomorrow.”

Keys to Surviving NYC in 90 Degrees

• Upon exiting a well air conditioned building (i.e. your office) take in one last large breath of cool breathable air just before walking through the doors, into the humid water tank that is the street.
• Walk as close as you possibly can to stores. Many times they have their doors open, which provide a quick cold rush of air to passersby.
• Do not and I mean DO NOT walk by any fresh fish markets. **Especially the one on Sutphin Blvd. in Jamaica, Queens. The smell of yesterday’s fish in that degree of heat will make even the strongest person’s gag reflex reflux.** It’s also probably a pretty safe bet to stay away from South Street Seaport.
• When you enter a subway car that you even slightly suspect may be without air conditioning, abort your mission! Trust me, this is a totally valid reason to break the “no walking between cars while the train is in motion” rule. You don’t want to be stuck in a crowded, sweltering car with someone’s moist bunk armpit in your face.
• Buses!!! If you have to walk around Manhattan in the ungodly heat, use the MTA buses, they are usually well air conditioned and make for a much better trip than weaving in and out of hot, sweaty, crabby people. In my experience, people are much happier on the bus in the heat.
• Avoid the corner of 4th Avenue and President Street in Brooklyn. For some reason there is a year round lingering odor of dead bodies there. With every climbing degree, the smell heightens to unimaginable proportions. So, around July it smells like someone dumped medical waste or amputated limbs there.
• The best thing about NYC in the summer is The Hamptons! I’m not talking about going there. I’m referring to the fact that all of the annoying Manhattanites travel in 3 hours of traffic by car or Jitney every Thursday night to go there for the weekend, so the city is essentially empty from Friday to Sunday evening. Restaurants, museums, movie theatres, oh my! All normally fairly annoying, are much less crowded and best of all: AIR CONDITIONED.
• Tasty Di-Lite. Low fat and all over Manhattan (and some places in Brooklyn).
• Ordering lunch in. Do you really want to leave your wonderfully cool office to schlep down 5th Avenue with all of the other pissed off zombies to go and buy lunch? Take my advice my friend, have it delivered.
• I’m still not sure what the answer is to surviving the subway stations in the high temperatures. I usually just keep reminding myself that the air conditioned train is coming, but it doesn’t prevent the feeling that I have jumped into a large dirty fish tank and that my lungs are filling up with all of the malaria infested water. Any ideas?
• This sounds mean, but avoid homeless people. If you think they smell bad in December…Duuuuuuuude.
• Do not walk by the backs of those “hybrid” buses. Unless, of course, you need to burn off some unwanted facial hair.