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Bronx Story Irving Itchy Bronsky M.D.

When I was ten years old and Sid 13, he suggested that we sneak on the 3rd avenue elevated station, and we go downtown to 42nd street and Times Square. We were off from school that fall day, and after lunch we took off. Of course, without telling our mother. There was a canopy covering the steps leading up to the 174th street and Third avenue station and we easily climbed on it; we didn't care if the neighborhood people saw what we were doing. (In our neighborhood it was common for kids and adolescents to use the canopy to bypass the turnstiles.) We scrambled up the steep incline with no effort and at the top it was no problem to climb over the outside platform railing. We took the train to Manhattan, riding in the first car, and looking out the front window, next to the motorman's cab. With our noses almost pressed to the window we negotiated all the squealing turns, speeding up and most important of all applied brakes, - we made sure that the eight-car train did not derail. We were at least thirty feet above the ground and there was nothing on the side of the tracks other than a three-plank foot walk and a skimpy wire handhold. It was especially dangerous on turns but we were experienced in front car driving. We arrived safely and jubilantly at the 42nd street and Third Avenue station and quickly stepped off the train. We ran down the canopied steps into the wonderland of downtown New York: the hustle and bustle of streams of automobile and trolley traffic, hooting trucks, many people in the streets. And all surrounded by an unending series of huge buildings. In the middle of Third Avenue and 42nd street a policeman was casually directing traffic. We wandered West, up 42nd street, towards Times Square; when we got to Fifth Avenue there was the New York City Public Library. We saw the fascinating number of steps leading up to the huge main entrance; and to top it off on top, there two huge concrete guarding lions. We had heard that it was the biggest library in the world. We got as far as climbing onto the concrete lions guarding the massive entrance, reveling in our newfound power. After a few minutes we noticed that almost everyone coming out or going into the library was looking at us so we got off, went down the steps and pushed on westward. We passed Stern's department store, which had window displays, including one that with live models; we stopped at that one because every few minutes the male and female models would change. I could have stayed on but Sid tugged on my sleeve and we went another block west on 42nd street. We had arrived at the fabled Times Square. It was like the Grand Canyon pictures I had seen in pictures but this was more overwhelming in reality. We knew that this was the place where one million people came to New Year's Eve to celebrate. The neon signs were lit even though it was daytime. There was a huge billboard with the reclining figure of a woman on it that must have been fifty feet long. One flickering neon sign drew our attention was the one advertising a particular brand of cigarettes. Every ten seconds or so it blew perfect smoke rings about three feet in diameter. During the time we spent exploring the canyon area of Times Square area we must have seen hundreds of these smoke rings. It was always exciting to see. Now, face to face, were the big movie houses we had heard of where you see famous entertainers on the stage plus a first run movie: the Paramount, the Roxy, the Capitol theaters. Each one had a uniformed usher, dressed like a three star south American general, in charge of keeping order in the long lines. We got as far as the ticket taker of the Roxy, who was wearing a tuxedo. He frowned at us but said nothing. We looked into the huge, carpeted lobby and saw more uniformed ushers, wearing little round boxes on their heads. All the stores in Times Square were three times bigger than the stores in our neighborhood. They sold all kinds of merchandise which we had never seen before. One store in particular did nothing but auction off things and in our innocence we thought that people were getting tremendous buys. It was getting dark and we were hungry so we hurried and half-ran east, down 42nd street to Third avenue to sneak onto the third avenue elevated line. Our plan was to climb the canopy onto the station just as we had done at the start of this adventure and to go back uptown. We stood at the entrance to the canopy but there were two problems. First of all it was going home time and hundreds and hundreds of people were in the immediate vicinity of the entrance to the steps and they would see us doing something illegal. Secondly, and more important, there was a policeman directing traffic and another one lounging not far from the canopy steps. We were helpless and hopeless. I was the first one who started to cry because I felt that we would never get home and would be sent away to a "Reform School, up the river." Then Sid followed suit, crying even louder than me. Our dramatic crying attracted the attention of the lounging policeman. He suddenly appeared before us, huge, swinging his club, and looking down at us. Then he tugged at his blue cap and wiped his lips. The whole thing was too much for us and we now were crying more loudly and hysterically. For sure he was going to cuff us and take us away. We cringed and clung to each other when he put his hand in his pocket, expecting him to pull out his cuffs or his gun. But first, surprisingly, he asked, "What er ya crying about," in an Irish brogue. But wait. What's this? Now Sid and I were crying, babbling and gesturing wildly as we both spoke at the same time. The cop took his hand out of his pocket and said, "Now tayke it easy, I ain't rushin' youze." We managed to simmer down and Sid told the cop, "We ain't got no money ta go on the elevated ta get home to the bronx where we live on 174th street." Again he put his hand in his pocket as if to pull out his gun and again we started to howl. The policeman's hand came out of his pocket and he was holding a small shiny object between his thumb and pointing finger. It was a dime! Enough for us to get home legally. Our shock changed to confusion and then to happiness as he gave my brother the dime and said in a gruff brogue: "Here. Gwan home. Get out of here."

© 2004 Irving Itchy Bronsky M.D.

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