The Sunday Memory Drawer - Riding the Rails

Here's another reminder of things that are no longer what they used to be.   For those folks too young to remember, this is a New York City subway token.  Screw those stupid Metro Cards they use now.  You simply slipped one of these into a turnstile and you were on your way.  For 15 cents.  Or 25 cents.  Or 50 cents.   Yep, the price did keep going up over time.  

When I was a kid, I used to always have a token or two on my possession or in my Roy Rogers-inscribed wallet.  I lived just five blocks away from the Bronx IRT 241st Street-White Plains Road train station.  I never knew where my next subway train adventure would take me.

Back then, all subway cars had this cute little sign all over the place.  I remember it well.

"Little Enough to Ride For Free, Little Enough to Ride Your Knee."

That applied to little tykes who could simply slip underneath the turnstiles and ride the rails, ideally with adult supervision, at no charge.  

Well, I don't remember getting a lot of free passes for the subway.  But, even though I was still very young in age, I was pretty much riding the IRT without adult supervision.  Usually, my traveling companion was my childhood best chum Leo.  And, at the ripe old age of 12 or 13, we were bee-bopping around New York City subway lines all by our lonesome.  These days, you're unlikely to let your twelve-year-old out of your adult sight line for five minutes in a movie theater.  But, back then, the world was a different place.  There were plenty of predators but most were still working in back alleys and not on the internet.

My earliest memories of subway riding, however, did involve adults.  As early as when I was five years ago, I was being regularly put under a microscope for some eyesight issues.  My mother had to drag me to some of the top hospitals and optometrists in Manhattan.  She had no clue how to maneuver herself through the mazes of the IRT and the IND.  So, for every trip on the subway, it was mandatory for any member of my family to engage the services of Aunt Edie. 

She was really a distant cousin to the family, but, once again, she merited the title of "aunt" as all adult relatives did for me.  For some reason, Aunt Edie had marketed herself as a subway expert.  This was her big claim to fame.  She knew where all the station transfers were.  She knew which staircases led to where.  She was our personal underground Magellan.  And, as this experienced trailmaster, Aunt Edie led all of our excursions "downtown."

I can still remember these days of "pre-air-conditioned" subway cars.  If it was warm weather, the sweat on my legs would stick to the rattan seats.  I preferred to stand and usually insisted that we ride in the first car so I could peer out the window and help the engineer steer.  If we had to make a transfer, Aunt Edie would alert us two stations before.  The exchange of trains had to be exacted with pinpoint precision.  I got nervous whenever this happened.  What if we did not make it?  Would we be lost underground forever?  No worries.  This was why she was along for the ride.

These eye exam treks always came with a special bonus.  Afterwards, Aunt Edie would sherpa us down to Radio City Music Hall for the latest movie and stage show.  Then lunch at a semi-fancy restaurant, likely some Schrafft's Luncheonette.  One such trip ended badly when I got sick and threw up all over the lunch counter.  That had to be appetizing for the other folks up and down the row.  I think they tore this place down by now and I was probably the reason why.

I'd go some years before I was back on the subway.  Once the eye doctor visits stopped and the Radio City Music Hall visitations coincided more with holidays and summer vacation, I was pretty much Westchester-bound.

And then there was baseball.  A city with two major league baseball teams that could be easily accessed by the subway.

Early on, I had to depend upon my dad for Buick-like transportation to see the Mets at Shea Stadium.  But, when I was more active around the age of twelve, I broached the issue of seeing my team with a chaperone that was much younger than 45.  I got little resistance when I broached my idea to the parental units.  I wasn't going alone.  My pal Leo was tagging along.  And I carefully laid out the subway route as if I was General George S. Patton.

"We take the 2 train to Times Square.  We switch to the 7 train to Flushing.  It's very easy.  And, besides, I'm already riding the train to church on Sunday morning.  We'll be fine."

Fine, considering that the difference in subway time between church and Shea Stadium was about one hour and twenty minutes.

In that different world, place, and time, they had no problem with any of it.  Off we went.  And as I wrote before...

Leo apparently had been rewarded the same clearance from his folks and was primed for a foray into parts of the NY metropolitan area unknown. We worked out a handshake deal on our baseball travels. If he, as a Yankee fan, would go to a Met game with me, I would reciprocate with an excursion to the House That Ruth Built. Such diplomacy and civility is uncommon in society today.

All treks would commence at the 241st Street Subway station, which was a mere blocks away from our homes. Setting out for a baseball game was akin to prepping for a climb up Mount Everest. Once we boarded the trains on the elevated tracks shown above, we would be casting our fates to the gods. And spending a helluva lot of time underground.

The first ten or so minutes on the train was familiar to us. We knew the stops from our past travels to the Wakefield Theater on 233rd Street or my church on 219th Street. Once we got to the first major hub of Gun Hill Road, we steeled ourselves a little bit tighter on those dirty gray seats. We were on less familiar turf.

After we passed through the West Farms Square station heading into the South Bronx, all bets were off. As far as we were concerned, we might as well have been going on an African safari. Unarmed. There were so many stations and train stops. At platforms that scared us just a little. We were not in Mayberry anymore.

174th Street. Freeman Street. Simpson Street.

Hmm, red lights in some of the windows? We were young, but we knew what that meant. Even then.

Intervale Avenue. Prospect Avenue. Jackson Avenue.

We were still on an elevated track. We could see all the treachery around us. We waited for the cool and dark vastness of the subway tunnel at 149th Street and Third Avenue. Sure, the evil would still be there. But, at least, we wouldn't have to see it anymore.

To get to Shea Stadium, we needed to change trains for the Flushing Line at Time Square. You couldn't miss those subway cars headed for Queens. They were painted an ugly pale blue color that now reminds me of an Al Sharpton leisure suit. While figuring out how to maneuver this intricate deviation in travel direction, we would try to get a snack in a place that was virtually snackless. You could try and step over a bum to get a hot dog from a vendor that hadn't cleaned his grill since LaGuardia was mayor. There were gum and candy machines. You might pull the lever for Juicy Fruit and wind up with a package of Sensen.

And, of course, there were the soda machines. Not like the ones we know today with the cans and the bottles. These gave you a cup with some ice. But it was really as dicey as the most crooked roulette wheel in Vegas. You'd put in your coins, pulled the knob for the soda flavor of your choice, and then held your breath. Down came the cup. No ice. No syrup. Only seltzer.

Try it again. Down came the syrup. Down came the ice. No cup.

Try it again. Down came the seltzer. No syrup. No ice. No cup.

One last time. Ice tumbled onto your shoes. And that was it.

We usually found up getting to our baseball game with a critical case of dehydration.

But, we did get there and, from then on, two barely thirteen-year-olds popping onto the subway into parts unknown was pretty commonplace for us.  Granted our destinations were pretty direct and easy.  Shea Stadium.  Yankee Stadium.  But, as soon as we turned fourteen, we felt a need to branch out.

Conveniently, that was also the minimum age for admission to the studio audience of the Tonight Show, which was hosted then by a still young...and alive Johnny Carson from the studios at NBC Rockefeller Center.  I sent away for tickets and got two for a taping three months later. 

Okay, now I had to pitch this new concept to my father.   There had been an added feature to the adventure.  The show taped at 5:30PM.  We would be on the subway at, gasp, nighttime.

"You wanna go where?"

Johnny Carson.

"I don't like him."

You're not going.  Leo is coming with me.

"Oh, okay, don't do anything stupid."

A different time, a different place, and a different world. 

I wondered if the same exchange had gone on in Leo's house, except only in Italian.

Our appointment with a television show taping came sooner than we thought.  And, once again, we approached it with the same precision and detail that the Allies used to land on Normandy Beach.   Luckily, NBC Studios were right across the street from Radio City Music Hall.  Oh, a piece of cake.  I channeled the wit, wisdom, and navigational powers of Aunt Edie.  I was experienced.  We can do this.

And we did. 

If I remember correctly, these two youngsters lingered around Manhattan a bit after the Carson show let out.  Like two insurance salesmen working on 47th Street, we got something to eat at a Woolworth's lunch counter.  Then we ambled down to the Playland arcade.  We were young adults.  Or so we thought. 

And we got home in one piece.  As we always did.

The excursion went so smoothly that I sent for more tickets the very next morning.  That became our routine.  Send for tickets, go to show, send for tickets, go to show.  We went to the Tonight Show so often that, not only did we see Carson, but we were also being treated to guest hosts like Joan Rivers and Joey Bishop.  We could do it all blindfolded.

We extended our Rockefeller Center adventures one year to include the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall.  Probably the first time I saw that without Aunt Edie munching on some Pom Poms in the next seat.  The feature that Yuletide season was a weird one for the holidays.  "The Impossible Years" with David Niven.  All about a father worrying about his teen-age daughter losing her virginity.

Boy, how grown up were we now!!!

Somehow and some way, I got older and riding the subway suddenly seemed beneath me.  When I was attending college at Fordham University as a commuter my first two years, I frequently annoyed my dad for a ride there.

"Why?  It's just fifteen minutes away on the subway."

Oh, do I have to???

Dinner last night:  Chicken cordon bleu. wild rice, and salad.