Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

December 9, 2007

Today’s Announcement

Christmas is just around the corner and most of you have already started to think about Christmas gifts for this season.  Why not help out Storytime Tapestry with its ongoing commitment to provide you with free wonderful stories and poems daily by purchasing the publisher’s newest book for someone special on your holiday gift giving list this year.  Angels Watching Over Me can be published through lulu press in both hard copy and e-book.  Just click on the link:  Angels Watching Over Me

Important notice: Storytime Tapestry is a free e-zine, however donations are always needed to help with the operating expenses of running the newsletter and to keep Storytime Tapestry the quality newsletter you are so accustomed to.   You can make your donations to paypal at: winterose@videotron.ca, or if you would prefer to use the mail system contact the publisher at the same email address: winterose@videotron.ca

Today’s Stories

~**~**~

The Changes Life Brings and the Lessons We Learn, Part VI

Pina Martinella

 In my twenties my relationships with men were pretty interesting to say the least, but during the latter part of 1977 I wasn't all that interested in dating anyone. At 21  I was about as emotionally ready to date as I was interested in learning how to skydive. Some men did try to dissuade me from my solitary existence, but I wouldn't budge. I knew I wasn't ready to embark on the great abyss of a twenty-something relationship, especially when I had virtually no clue as to who I was. Instead of settling for the company of "some man" I chose to concentrate on myself and my new life in the city of my birth. New York, New York, a wonderful town.

            Amending my nocturnal habits to work with the rhythmic cycle of the business world was difficult for me at times. I would ultimately become a morning person as the years passed, content to rise with the birds to enjoy the quiet and my solitude. But then I was young and had to adjust to all my new life offered, including adapting to and contending with one of the more unpleasant and infamous aspects of life in the Big Apple, New York's massive subway system. Even though I grew up in New York, dealing with the subways on a daily basis was an entirely new experience for me, especially when I had to contend with the mass of humanity that flooded its platforms each morning. In high school I enjoyed riding the subway on its off hours with friends, especially when we were heading further downtown and wanted to arrive at our destination quickly. I didn't think the subways were all that bad then, but then I wasn't working. I could ride at my own leisure and avoid the crowds.

            In the late 1970's the subways were at such an all time low no one wanted to be there, which was understandable given its vast state of disrepair. Unfortunately, we really didn't have that many choices when it came to rapid transportation, so the subways were our only choice. There were other options, however. You could spend a small fortune on cabs and watch your money whittle away while you sat in rush hour traffic, watching the ticker add up each cent you spent sitting in the passenger seat, waiting to move maybe an inch or a foot. This was progress! Or, you could spend your time sitting on a bus, watching the world pass by for an hour, which was what it took to travel through Central Park's transverses to the East side on 96, 86, 79, and 69 Streets. Thus, subways were the preferred method by which to start your day on the wrong side of any given mood.

            Not only was the environment a haven for germs as yet undiscovered, its employees and clientele served to make each morning such a delightfully dreary experience even life's worse moments were an improvement when compared with this dank world. I was especially fond of the ever personable token booth clerks, whose sullen, angry, and blank faces greeted me at the dawn of each new day. These people, who were assigned to work at the 103rd Street Station, were so impossibly wretched you began to wish they would quit their jobs the day before just for the sake of your own sanity. In the morning around 7:30 a.m., I would dash down the steps in a great mood, only to find myself face to face with one of these unhappy souls who always  managed to make every rider's day a truly welcoming experience. "Good morning", I would say, pleasantly. They would grumble something unintelligible or say nothing all, although I think they actually were considering severing my cheerful little head from my neck. They never smiled or said anything even remotely pleasant, but then I guess I would have felt the same way if I had to work there.

            Once I purchased my tokens and headed to the turnstile a few feet away, I had the pleasure of walking into a garbage strewn environment that might shock some. It certainly added to the sense of gloom underneath our city streets. The platforms and tracks were strewn with garbage of all kinds, including banana peels, orange rinds or apple cores, discarded newspapers and magazines,  coffee cups, unknown or unrecognizable rotting food scraps, wrappers and cigarettes. For the rats this served as a plentiful feast, a veritable treasure trove for the culinary senses in the rat world. For me this simply illuminated the laziness of most riders, who dumped their garbage on the platform floor a mere foot away from a garbage can. I often wondered how they lived in their own homes while I watched them dump a coffee cup on the tracks.

            Equally enchanting to endure each morning, and especially when one's sinuses were acting up, was learning how to breath the subway air. I actually considered buying a gas mask, but figured this was not a great idea in a city were some were a bit paranoid about even the slightest of things, like sharing a pole or a strap inside the subway car. Trust me, it's true. I once got into an argument with someone who was upset that I was holding onto what she deemed to be "her" strap. I thought she was fruit cake and told her that therapy should be her next step. Anyway, it wasn't the toxic fumes that prompted the idea of purchasing a gas mask. What prompted this idea was the ever-delightful experience of smelling the varied forms of human waste in all its shapes, sizes and odors. The air, rancid with old urine, spit, feces, or fresh vomit, added to the exhaust fumes that drifted in from the streets above, released  by the cars, buses and trucks that drove overhead. The smells were made worse by the sweltering heat that remained there - even in winter, but far worse in summer - with virtually no escape, eternally stale, stifling and slightly nauseating. Sometimes the combination of train exhaust or a distant track fire fused with these odors to the point it was beyond sickening and the choice of breathing into one's jacket or blouse became the only method towards one's own survival. In time and with practiced and efficient breath work, one became accustomed to it, but in summer one simply could not, no matter how hard they tried.

            In the worst stations, the farthest corners of the platforms served as a toilet for the subway's subterranean communities, our city's forgotten and most vulnerable lost souls, many of whom lived there in plain view. Most of these people were seriously mentally ill, discarded by family members,  hospitals, and social service agencies that could no longer care for them. Sadly, some were so disturbed and filthy even our darkest imaginings couldn't compare with how they looked. I often wondered how they had become this way and why. While many of the more trafficked stations were not revolting, those off the beaten track in Upper Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens were in considerably poor shape. These were not safe places to travel alone, especially as a woman.

            More pleasing to deal with, however, were the uniformly glum, gray riders who would have been far more interesting to me if they were actually worker ants. At least ants were focused on their day, busily foraging for food, clearing the entry of the anthill of its waste, or caring for the developing eggs, while catering to their Queen. These people looked as if they had just risen from the grave mere minutes before they arrived at the station to attend to their daily lives. Their eyes, skin, hair, nails, and clothing were awash in shades of gray so depressing I made a point of wearing colorful clothing each day as a way to cheer myself up and avoid the grayness they emitted from their living corpses.

            There were, of course, some aggressive passengers one had to contend with more often than one wanted to. Lumbering down the steps to enter the station slowly was not a wise move, especially if you wanted to live another day. Not only was I unused to rising early in the morning to prepare for work, I certainly was not prepared to arm myself with jutting elbows to fend off some of New York's more pushy and aggressive subway riders. Some of them were so self-centered they did not bother to notice if they hurt someone they hurriedly shoved to the side as they ran to catch the next train. One time a rider pushed past me so fast I nearly careened down the steps and landed on my behind. Fortunately I had quick reflexes that helped catch my fall, but I was furious and spent several seconds cursing under my breath. In time I learned to deal with this madness but it was enormously overwhelming and exhausting at first. I simply wasn't pushy by nature, which was strange considering I was born and raised there. Eventually, I adopted what I called my "subway attitude face" and learned to push my way through with the rest of them, politely but firmly.

            The trains were especially delightful to ride in during the awful, humid heat of summer. Even then, beneath the surface of the city's streets, the heat caused even the most benign odors to rise and fester in this sweltering environment, including the scent of sweat emitted by other passengers. In summer most of the subway car's air-conditioning equipment did not function and passengers were stuck in cars devoid of fresh air. In some cars, the vents actually did work, but they simply spewed hot stale air that wafted in from the tracks and the fumes of passing trains. Other cars, had no ventilation at all, so riders opened the windows to get some relief. This was a futile waste of energy, especially coupled with ever growing crowds of passengers that crammed themselves in to even these trains. A few cars actually had decent air-conditioning systems but they were always the most crowded, especially when someone became ill in the next car, or a vagrant seated him or herself in another, or, as per usual, the air-conditioning wasn't functioning in the other cars. There, in the relief of the cold, air-conditioned car, dozens of us would cram together like sardines, blessed to have the opportunity to smell our combined body odors.

            Riding the subways was made even more of a festive occasion when one had to manage the subway's best clientele and my personal favorites, the men unfavorably known as the resident  "gropers and grinders". These men attempted to get their rocks off when they "accidentally" brushed themselves against a woman in front of them. This was part of subway travel and most women in New York City were forced to contend with this violation of personal space all too frequently, especially if there were no seats left and they were forced to stand. Although women were quick to learn how to protect their personal space, some men simply were so persistent in their pursuit of "copping a feel" they all but ignored our protests. While some men actually apologized when they did get too close, others simply ignored us or conversely, protested too much, as if to convince us they would do no such thing. They had their own agenda in mind, which was pathetically obvious.

            Trying to escape from this daily bump and grind was an exercise in futility because you simply had no place to go on the crowded train. Your only choice was to stay put and try to protect your private parts with one hand, while the other gripped the pole in a desperate attempt to hang on and not land in the lap of a seated passenger. One time, in a fit of bravery that surprised me but I do not recommend, especially not in this day and age,  I actually fought one grinder and my New York attitude came out in full force.

            Our train had stopped at the 96th Street and Broadway station to allow passengers to connect with the local or express trains the day I had the misfortune of encountering one of these insipid, pathetic cretins. I was on the Uptown Local, the # 1 train, while the cretin was exiting the Uptown #2 Express train to make the local I was on. I made the mistake of holding the door open for this man, a white, early middle-aged man who appeared clean cut and professional. Looks really are deceiving at times and I was definitely fooled by his appearance. Holding the exit doors open for incoming passengers is a customary practice in New York, even though we all know doing so actually damages its inner mechanisms. We know how long the wait will be, so in an effort to help our fellow riders we make such gestures regularly. Like every other New Yorker, I did the same for him, happy to oblige and dispel the myth we are all uncaring boobs.

            He seemed nice enough and thanked me for my kindness as he moved behind me to hold onto the pole we shared with other passengers. The train was hot and crowded at this point, and I couldn't wait to get off at the next stop. Preoccupied by thoughts of work, I didn't notice what he was doing until I realized he was lingering a bit longer than he should have after the train had lurched forward. I pushed back in an effort to get him off me, but he pressed harder as the train continued to move, his groin pressing into my buttocks harder than before. I pushed back again and tried to move elsewhere, but he pushed me again, this time trapping me against the pole with no room to escape. Furious, I yelled loudly, "Get the fuck off me, asshole!", but he persisted even more, intent to continue his grind fest even as others looked on. My fellow passengers really couldn't see what was going on, but I simply had enough. I became so angry I jabbed both elbows into his ribs, hard. He slapped my head until I stepped hard on his foot, the full weight of my body meeting the top of his arch with my heel. He yelled and I called him a "psycho" as I dashed off the train at 103 Street, thankful he did not get off the train and follow me back home.

            Despite these annoyances, the subway did possess some interesting things to look at occasionally, apart from the other riders, some of whom were fascinating for me to watch stealthily from afar. I would subtly study their faces, style of dress and their carriage as they walked, fascinated by their unique attributes and individuality. However in New York, there is a sort of quiet rule that you must obey, especially if you want to reach your destination safely and in one piece. In  New York, staring at someone else is not an especially wise move, unless you are willing to physically defend yourself from someone who has taken your stare as a challenge and offers a fight. Staring is viewed as a threat, so if you are a people watcher, it is best to acquire a subtle approach in your observations. Sunglasses help.

            In 1980, I started noticing that some subway display boards were adorned with strange, linear art forms that appeared from out of nowhere. These images could be found at many stations and they mystified me. The works, which consisted of white lines and human shapes painted against a deep black background, were simple and almost childlike in presentation. I wasn't crazy about the pieces, but they did capture my eye, each one radiating a kind of life energy that drew you within its frame. In a few years I would learn that this was the work of the graffiti artist, Keith Haring, who was "discovered" then. Keith Haring went on to achieve considerable fame once his work was exposed in New York's hippest Soho Galleries. He associated with the likes of Andy Warhol and other notable artists of the time. But his tenure on this earth ended too soon. In 1990, Keith Haring died from an AIDS related illness, but his memory still shines on.

To be continued....     

Pina Martinelli

Pina1101@aol.com

To be continued...

**~**~

A Dream, Mail
Bill Walker
missourisage@yahoo.com.

I guess everyone has a crazy dream once in a while. One that makes no
sense what so ever. I woke up awhile ago, and the crazy thing was still
in my mind. I think  when  one calls it a day,  something in the brain
goes to work, recalling things of that day, and many years back. I guess
the brain puts the two together, and one has a crazy dream.

I watched a film of a soldier from many years ago. A soldier of my
war, Korea, a true hero. I guess that might have set the small brain
into working.

In this crazy dream I received a letter back from a Marine I knew that
was in Korea. The funny thing is this letter came back with a whole
bunch of words, like we tried to find him but now we are returning the
letter, whereabouts unknown, and please do not use this address again,
as it has not been in use for lots of years.

Well no I wouldn't think so, as some years back he visited me here.
We had been in school together, did a little bit of running around at
that time together. He was as crazy as when we were in school. He
was, at the time of the visit, retired from trying to be a preacher of
some sort. I always did think he was a nut case.

I guess maybe the mail thing might make some sense in a way. We wrote
a couple letters back and forth, after the visit, and then it came to an
end. I don't know what happened, but I got the last letter, and he
was blowing about how good things were. I think I answered it, and
never heard another word from him. I may have written the wrong
words, you know I am good at that. I did have his e mail address, and
his wife was the one that always answered any thing I sent. She was a
big shot teacher at some college. She was a pretty good blow hard
also. I didn't know much about her, it was him I knew a little about.
But I might have ticked her off and she stopped the writing deal. Any
ways it has been some time.

Maybe that was it. Guess I will be getting the last letter I wrote back
in a few days, marked unknown, but why would I have sent it to some
fox hole in Korea Pork Chop Hill? 1951. Crazy dreams.
Tinker and Poo; The Boys Write
http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?&isbn=0-595-35741-5

Poetry Corner

~**~**~

There's a Verse I Must Read

Fred Hose

How can I long
For what is mine?
How can I find
What I already know?

Are there different clouds
Over different seas?
Are there sands
That are more golden?

All I know is this
There's a verse that I must read.
There's a greater love
Far beyond words I know

There's a greater love
Far beyond my sensuous caresses
Now no longer a man
But a fire
A dancing whirling dervish
Blown by the mistral of my dreams.

Fred Hose

fredhose@mweb.co.za

~**~**~

Readers Feedback

~**~**~

 So well told and hopefully will be read or told to many who also fight against the demon of tobacco.  Hugs to you dear Clara keep writing and sharing  one of your fans  as always with thanks and appreciation to our lovely Winterose, Carol.  Leona

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