The D Train to 50th Street

I'm in New York, my birth city. And, as often happens here, my mind wanders to the past.

Is this not a glorious shot? Radio City Music Hall was a destination spot for me only about three times a year. But, when I was a kid, nothing provided me with more eager anticipation than the prospect of visiting the theater nestled at the corner of 50th Street and 6th Avenue.

Those were the days when a trip to the movies was an event. But, in the case of RCMH, it wasn't just a cinematic voyage. It was a three hour journey to another world. Because you didn't just get one of Hollywood's finest pictures. There was always a 35 minute stage show that always included one or two high-kicking numbers from the Rockettes.

Since I lived in the so-called opulent burbs, a RCMH day was a trek. The ubiquitous "trip downtown." Always the D Train from the Bronx. Starting at 205th Street. You got off at Rockefeller Center. For some reason, when my mom was doing the escort honors, she needed the assistance of this other distant relative in my family to guide her through the transit maze. Despite the fact that the RCMH route was virtually a straight line, my mother's sense of direction convinced her that she needed our own personal Indian guide, "Aunt Edie." But, then again, my mother could get lost taking butter out of the refrigerator.

Back in those days, you could actually get on the subway at 205th Street and never have to go outside. You'd come up into the subway concourse at 50th Street and walk right over to a Radio City box office window conveniently located at the subway entrance. You'd buy your 99 cent ticket, walk up a flight of stairs, and find yourself in the middle of that palatial lobby. If you truly want to experience that grandeur for yourself, rent Woody Allen's "Radio Days." He recreates it beautifully.

My mom would handle the Christmas and Easter visits to RCMH. My dad, for some reason, would be the one who would take me once during the summer, usually during his vacation. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that I never went to RCMH with both of my parents. Maybe that was the harbinger of things to come. I do recall that my mother liked to sit in the balcony, while my father preferred the orchestra. I was the unfortunate product of a mixed-seating marriage.

The Christmas show always featured the wonderful Nativity scene. So beautiful in its majesty. This, of course, was forever ruined for me years later when I saw them walking the camels out on 51st Street---being led by one of the elves/midgets who was taking a drag on a cigarette at the same time.

A vivid Summer memory of RCMH came on one of my trips with my father to the desired orchestra seats. The film was the original "Odd Couple" and I can never ever remember seeing my dad laugh as hard as he did that afternoon. On the other end of the memory register is one Radio City trip which was followed by the requisite meal in some restaurant that had a tablecloth. My measles made an untimely appearance right after the shrimp cocktail and I promptly threw up as mightily as a college freshman on Homecoming weekend.

Before the show, you were treated to a small little recital from this grand Wurlitzer organ which slid in and out of the wall. Add to this the actual stage that would rise up from the floor and then disappear out of sight. The half-moons that surrounded the screen. The opulence of the bathrooms. The glorious staircase in the lobby. This was what going to the movies was all about.

I literally learned to read by surveying the movie ads in the newspapers. I remember, particularly, the Radio City advertisements in the NY Daily News.
You would actually see movie start times listed as 10:33AM and the stage show slated to follow at 1256PM. It was such amazing precision. I wondered who was responsible for managing this process. And how could I, an eight-year-old who was good with arithmetic, get his job?

For me, Radio City Music Hall was worth the hour-long rickety ride on the D train with people who never seemed to cover their mouths when they sneezed. Because, at the end of the ride, there was a treat waiting like no other. The building is still there. It has been restored and it is used for concerts, the Tony Awards, college graduations, and senior citizen field trips around the holidays. The Christmas stage show still exists, but it is now a canned mess that is about 90 bucks per ticket. Those buses pulling up from retirement villages in Hohokus, New Jersey, clog the streets outside as people clamor to get a taste of what they think they remember from years gone by. But, it is not the same.

I get to walk by Radio City Music Hall frequently on my trips back East. I just did so this morning. Sometimes, the janitors are working and the lobby doors are open. I peek inside quickly. But, it is not what I see that grabs hold of me. It is what I don't see.

My mother in the balcony sneaking a smoke under her seat.

My father convulsed with laughter in the orchestra.

Walter Matthau throwing a plate of spaghetti against the wall.

"Now, it's garbage!"

Smiles that have passed on.

Dinner last night: pizza rustica and shrimp cocktail at Harvest on Hudson.