by Jerry "Clapso" Avissato
April 18, 2000
Urban Sociology
Professor Sarah "Doc" Coleman
Some may think me crazy but I miss the urban decay of the 70's. The perfect example of what I mean can be found in New York City. This example is located in Manhattan between 3rd and 6th avenues with 40th street to the south and 48th street to the north. In my youth, it was a magical place we in Brooklyn called "The Deuce." It was a rite of passage for those growing up in "the outer boroughs" to travel to Times Square via subway, with only a group of fellow teenagers as escort. The nickel bag of weed we procured from Eddy "The green man" was rolled and sampled at our home station of 62nd street in Brooklyn, a second joint would be burned on the "N" train (Sea Beach Line) zooming through the tunnels under the city. The highlight of the trip occurred after Decalb Avenue, the last stop in Brooklyn for a Manhattan bound "N" of that time. After Decalb the train would climb a hill on it's way to urban heaven. That lofty height was the part of the ride that traversed the Manhattan Bridge. Outside and 50 stories up (stories being the official "up" measurement of the City) we would sit in silent awe at the man made mountains that made up the eastside skyline. We could see clear to that other country, New Jersey. Off to the left stood the lady of the harbor, her beacon a reminder of the huddled masses our recently arrived ancestors were as they passed her on their way to Ellis Island. On the Manhattan side of the bridge, we could look down on China town, a place as yet only imagined, and left for the later cultural culinary adventures of our later teens and twenties. The first stop in Manhattan was the China Town stop, it's sign written in both English and Contonese, a hint of the multi-culturalism that our parents still referred to as the melting pot. In would rush a confused group of what we called "Hicks" or what are usually referred to as tourists. I didn't realize it then, but these were the kind of people that would kill, indirectly, our beloved Deuce. We would then zoom through the tunnel at a very rapid pace. The "N" was an express and would bypass all the stops between China Town and 34th street. At 34th groups of harried shoppers would enter with Macy's shopping bags, bashing an unprepared Hick's knee. The hicks just didn't know the lay of the land. If you're on the subway and you see someone with a shopping bag coming your way, mind your knees lest someone of the City think you a hick. The doors would close and we would squirm in anticipation, as the next stop was the Deuce. Fingers Finacaro would always be prompted by Johnny Ooch to play the theme from 42nd Street on his "Third World Briefcase." Fingers, whose real name was Francis, would mumble about how he hated the song, but would pop in the Woolworth's vended "Worlds Greatest Showtunes" Cassette, and crank it up to annoy the hicks. One, Probably the leader of their tribe, would mumble to his mate how glad he was that their children were better behaved. We would laugh and taunt them, and they would huddle together, in fear, not understanding our culture.
At the Times Square stop, the doors would open and we would charge out in lock step, ready to make our assault on that well-known teenage enemy, boredom. The Deuce was never boring. Up the stairs and out onto the street, we would join a sea of humanity. Our well bonded secondary group akin to a tribe. We were hunter-gatherers of experience. The inter-tribal gathering that took place at the deuce was a rival to any ancient pagan festival. There were the groups from Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx; each with it's slightly different type of dress and speech. We, of the Sunset Park tribe, wore earth shoes, bleached Levi's and t-shirts with four letter words printed on them. There were the kids from Jersey, newly arrived via the Hudson tubes, always seeming out of place with their stadium rock t-shirts. The free lance photographers hawked photos taken in front of the famous sex shops to the hicks who would bring them home to show friends what a strange place NYC was. The Three Card Monty Players would extract a chunk of cash from the hicks before they would catch on that the game is fixed. We would take in these sights and then hit the penny arcades. Then we would hit one of the fifty-cent movie houses and watch a couple of kung-fu movies
If it was warm as in spring or fall we would walk the 60 blocks (blocks being the forward/back measurement of the city) to the Brooklyn Bridge. We would cross into Brooklyn on foot via the bridge walkway. We would then walk the Brooklyn Heights Promenade for another breathtaking view of the lower Manhattan Skyline. We would then take the subway back to our neighborhood.
If it was a hot summer night we would leave the Deuce and walk the 80 blocks to South Ferry. We would take the Staten Island Ferry out past the Lady of the harbor to the Isle of Richmond. Once on the Staten Island side, we would board the city bus that would take us over the Varranzano Narrows Bridge. The last stop on that bus was 95th street, which was the outskirt of our neighborhood. We would catch the 5th avenue bus back to our home block of 52nd street, hang out on the stoop for a while and debrief about the last night's mission while planing our next adventure.
In the late 70's, the City fathers decided to "clean up" Times Square. After about a decade of court actions they finally got their wish in the mid 80's. Times Square, it was decided, would be "revitalized." This was done by building some large hotels in the area. The state provided funds from the "I love New York" ad campaign. The hicks were enticed to return to see the "New Times Square." Disney built a large store, which sells the usual Mickey Mouse PJ's, and such. Tower Records and McDonalds are there. Gone is the street life that made the place an experience. The joy of the place has been removed by replacing the former economic activities with a Mall.
In the early 80's I watched as my tribal holy ground, the Deuce was taken over by gentrification. It was subtle at first. The members of the outer borough tribes were seen to be fewer and fewer. They were replaced more and more by hicks. I felt uneasier there with every passing day. In my early 20's, I used to do a ritual there that, until now, I had no understanding of. That ritual was, I now know, a beating of the drums. I was communicating to a now scattered, unlistening tribe that I was still present. I had found out that if you dialed a certain number, then hung up, the phone you were using would ring until someone picked it up. In Times Square, there are pay phones, often in large groups, all over the place. I would go from phone bank to phone bank dialing and hanging up. After about 20 minuets, I would have every pay phone in Times Square ringing.
During one such event a hick approached me and asked why I was making the phones ring. I had no answer so I just smiled. He asked me my name, which I told him. He told me his name was Stephen King. I didn't place the name so he told me he wrote "Carrie" and "Firestarter." I smiled and said cool. He asked me to remember something. A phrase he said was inspired by my phone trick. The phrase was "the sound of my birth will be the sound of every phone in the world ringing at the same time." He later used that concept in "Lawnmower Man." My attempt to call my tribe had ironically lead to a connection to one of the holy men of the new religion. That is the worship of celebrity. At the writing of this work, Times Square is now the home of one of the high churches of teenage celebrity worship. MTV is now headquartered there. The teens of the outer borough tribes now travel there to worship the mass-produced totems of the music industry. Was it some sort of tribal race memory that led the executives at MTV to locate there? Perhaps among them, there is a former member of the outer borough tribes. Maybe he or she remembers the Deuce in its former glory. Then again, maybe this is just a symptom of the McDonaldization of the Deuce, the city, and the world.
The last connections I had to Times Square were broken in two final episodes. The first happened in 1989. Two friends of mine from out of town were visiting me in late December. Being hicks they wanted to go to Times Square on New Years Eve. I dreaded the idea but went along to please my friends. We ate dinner in the village then walked uptown to arrive in time for the dropping of the ball, and the start of the new decade. When we arrived at 40th street, we were greeted by a police barricade. We were told that we couldn't enter the Times Square area unless we had a key from a hotel in that area! So taken over was Times Square by the Corporations that profit from the hick trade, I was banned from my tribal holy ground. Even the fact that I was escorting 2 hicks did not gain me entrance. It wasn't enough to be a hick any longer. You had to be a hick with a token from the correct church in order to gain entrance.
The last episode happened in 1995. I was walking up Broadway around 43rd street when I noticed that the hicks were all staring at me. I took a look at myself and realized why. It was a hot summer day and I was wearing shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops on my feet. So changed was the area that anything less then business attire was out of place. I realized then that my old stomping ground was completely gone. There was no reason for me to go there ever again. I haven't been back since. I just can't face the sense of loss I feel when I walk those familiar streets now located in an unfamiliar place. As I sit in my room In Utica, New York writing this, I realize that my life has been colored by the loss of tribe I have written about on these pages. My Omni present feelings of not quite fitting in anywhere are probably traceable back to the loss of place that this work describes. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to replace the secondary groups I lost. I am a stranger in a strange land, even in the city of my birth. Is it any wonder that many of us have trouble connecting to other humans? Faced with the constant reinvention of the places of our past, most of us become wanders. Since everywhere is McDonaldized there is no reason to go anywhere else. The "there" you are going to see and be a part of is now the same as everywhere else. Sangertown Mall or Times Square, Washington DC or Mall of America, no matter where you go J.C. Penny's and Sears will be there. The absolute sameness of everywhere is the truth of the matter. The number one activity during vacations is now shopping. Is it any wonder why?
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