In the City

Last night, I had to travel up from Manhattan to my childhood home in Yonkers to dig out my car. As I’ve mentioned before, we donated it to Habitat for Humanity NYC and I needed to do a few things before they pick it up today (clean out our stuff, drop off the title, keys, and radio, take pictures of the car for tax purposes). We were supposed to take care of this transaction a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t find the damn title, had to order a duplicate from the DMV, and then we were hit with snow. I almost avoided the trip when my mom graciously agreed to take care of all of this, but then my dad mentioned that the car was snow bound. Well, I certainly couldn’t ask my mom to dig it out (she’s in her mid-sixties and has early-stage Parkinson’s) and dad, well, he does a lot of heavy mental work (he’s a college professor and minister), but has never been one for physical labor. Long story short, he didn’t offer to dig it out, and I didn’t ask.

So, I hit the #4 train to Woodlawn after dinner (6:30 pm) and I was barreling toward my destination until we tried to enter the last few stations. We sat outside of Bedford Park Boulevard for ten minutes, then outside Mosholu for another ten, and finally about fifteen to twenty minutes outside of Woodlawn (the MTA is doing some sort of construction work on the station). If they tried to pull this crap below 96th Street, the riders would have bum rushed the engineer’s compartment, but irregular service is standard operating procedure out here. No one even worked up an annoyed sigh.

When I finally hit the street, I checked the Westchester “Bee Line” bus timetable on the sign post, which stated that the bus that will take me within a few blocks of the house will arrive at 7:55 pm. Mom and dad are out for the evening, so no one is waiting for me among the double parked cars under the El. A guy with a car that doesn’t have TLC plates offers his “taxi” services in halting English. I politely decline. Ten minutes pass and the bus does not appear as scheduled. A tipsy man and his pre-teen kid come out of a livery town car across the street. (The racetrack is only a few miles north of here and is the destination of many a livery cab.) The man loudly mentions his urgent need to hit the head. The corner bar accommodates him. People walk in and out of the pizzeria next door. Talk on the pay phone outside (“Where are you?!”). A few more trains pull in over us and their passengers flow down the stairs and disappear down quiet side streets. Another ten minutes pass, and the White Plains bus rolls up. I hop on, as it at least will get me to the city line. I could walk it, but there is a desolate ¾ of a mile stretch that cuts through the most northern tip of Van Cortlandt Park. With all the deep icy snow on what passes for a sidewalk, I’d have to walk in the road, which I did once a few winters ago, and nearly got hit by some buses, as they whipped along this stretch of urban/suburban no-man’s land.

Once I’m over the city line and off the bus, I have about another ¾ of a mile to walk, which is fine, but creepy. Hardly anyone walks around here at night, especially a bitterly cold one, and even though it is suburban and safe, I’m almost more guarded than I am in the city. So no tunes on the iPod to liven my pace as I hike up and down the hills of Yonkers.

I reach the old homestead at 8:30 pm – it took two freakin’ hours to go about 12 miles – and then spend less than five minutes freeing the car from its ice prison. (Thanks, dad.) I clean out the car, fill out the title transfer info, snap some pix of the car, and manage to catch the 9:31 pm bus (which shows up on time) back to the Bronx.

Few people of means ride the buses in Yonkers (it’s car city, baby) during the day, so it should come as no shock that the night bus is a strange ride. It’s either folks headed off to work, or the drunk, stoned, or deranged. The steps at the rear exit always smell like pee. But, tonight is quiet and painless. Everyone spread out far apart on the warm, brightly lighted articulated bus as it effortlessly runs its course. Friday nights on the night bus can have a particular edge to them, folks with pockets full of cash and bloodstreams brimming with chemicals. It could be a mellow party or a rolling brawl. One night bus I took a few summers ago was so filled with boozers, we could have fueled it on the fumes.

I’m always surprised by the number of people on the #4 train headed to Manhattan or Brooklyn on a cold weeknight. Where is everyone headed? No one wants trouble, so everyone hunkers down, hoods pulled up, hats pulled down, eyes shut or fixed on the linoleum, ears alert. I’ll make eye contact with people on the train during the day, but nighttime looking invites trouble. No one bothers you when you’re digging through a story about India’s Bollywood, which is what I do. A guy with a boom box walks on at Bedford Park Boulevard, and blasts some surprisingly good Jungle and Techno music that mixes in what sounds like 70s blaxploitation film music (lots of strings). No one seems to mind the beats. (And I miss the music when he steps off at 125th Street. I’d been tempted to ask him the name of the DJ, but didn’t want to risk making a scene if inquiries weren’t welcome.) A really sharp-dressed guy in his twenties saunters on at 149th Street, stoned into bliss, a sweetly satisfied smile on his lips, headphones clamped to ears, and eyes as shut as they can be while still letting in the light.

The doors mechanically pop open at 86th Street at around 10:15, and clumps of white people pour on to head to the Village (East or West), SoHo, and beyond to hit the nightlife. For a moment, I feel both young and old. Old because I’m beat from the day, the week, the years – and I’m headed home instead of out (and don’t really mind it). Young from the muscle memory of relying on fragile spider webs of outer borough public transportation to carry me in and out of Manhattan when I was too young to drive or too cash strapped to own a car. Suspended in time, place, and age. The cold wind on Lexington Avenue strips those feelings away and I’m back in my element, happy that I don’t have to deal with the futile exercise of alternate side parking – or using public transportation to Yonkers -- for the foreseeable future.

Happy that I’m headed home to my family in the city.