Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

Special Treat – David Wainland

March 11, 2008

A SUBWAY RIDE TO NOWHERE

By David Wainland

Pennsylvania Station on 34^th street in Manhattan is very large with several levels to explore. Subways and railroad trains from all over spill into that hub, pouring snake like out of and back into a myriad of dark tunnels. There is a confusing convolution of cars with a multitude of destinations. It is as easy to get lost as it is to arrive at your planned destination. When you are eleven years old and traveling alone, the station is more then large, it is overwhelming, even foreboding.

One Friday night my father asked if I wanted to come with him to his new shop the next morning and spend the day. He had rented a basement on 51^st Street, just off 3^rd Avenue in midtown and outfitted it with all the necessary tools to start his own business, the repairing and rewiring of antique chandeliers and lamps.

Not only was I happy about the impending event, playing with real machinery intrigued me, but I got to spend the day with my dad outside of our home.. He had suffered a badly broken hip with serious complications a couple of years back and for a long time he was locked inside of our apartment, a prisoner of his injury. Walking alongside him while he hobbled around on a cane fueled a sense of pride in me that I never knew I had. My daddy could do and overcome anything.

“Sure daddy.”

“Fine son, I’ll wake you early and I’ll take you to breakfast.”

In the morning we stopped at Cappy’s, our neighborhood luncheonette. I had a buttered Kaiser roll and a cup of coffee that was mostly milk and sugar, a grown up treat and almost the same as his. Then we walked to the 176^th Street station of the Jerome Avenue Subway line. We traveled southward into the city and arrived at Penn Station, walked for a bit, transferred to the E Train and we disembarked at 52^nd Street.

            In those days the Third avenue El still ran overhead and the neighborhood was seedy, filled with bums who the police had chased out and up from the Bowery. The trains clattered loudly over my head while dad held my hand as we walked past the hallway beggars and finally arrived at his shop. When I think about it today I realize that it was nothing but a crowded cellar beneath a shabby brownstone tenement, though in 1951 it was the palace of my father’s dreams.

            I do not remember the reason, but late in the day my father drew me aside.

            “David, I have to stay later then I thought. Do you think you can find your way home or would you rather stay with me until about nine o’clock?”

It was summer and my friends would be hanging out on the corner until late and I really wanted to tell them about my day.

            “That’s OK dad, write the instructions down and I’ll get home all right.” Traveling on the subway alone was nothing new. Most of the kids my age used the system to get to places like The Polo Grounds, Yankee Stadium and even to Wollman Memorial Ring in central Park where we went ice skating during the winter.

            “Fine, but no dawdling your mother will be expecting you and I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily.” He walked me back to the entrance, down the stairs, dropped a dime in the turnstile and waited until I was out of sight.

            The trip to Penn Station went well and I even located the tunnel to the subway with no difficulty, though somehow I had misplaced the directions. No problem, I thought, I’ve done this before.

            The platform where the trains arrived was actually two separate departure areas; I needed to walk down to one of two levels. After making my choice I waited at the edge of the walkway for the next train to the Bronx. It was not long before a collection of dirty cars cascaded out of the tunnel into the station. I boarded the mostly empty car and sat down on the woven straw seats and promptly lost myself in the collection of advertisements that stretched along the roof line. My favorites were the ads for Miss Subway and Miss Rheingold. About six months ago I started noticing girls and my libido was now growing faster than my body

            The sound of the train leaving the underground and whooshing into the fresh air was familiar and I looked out to see parts of the city flashing by. The train made one stop and then another, by the third I knew something was wrong. I did not recognize the streets or the neighborhoods. I was on the wrong train.

            When we pulled into the next stop I got out and went directly to the change booth attendant. He only spoke Spanish and when I looked around, there were only what I identified as Puerto Ricans on the platform.

I went downstairs, crossed the platform, back up and waited for the next train returning to Penn Station.

            Thirty minutes later I was again boarding the cars and retuning to what I thought was my section for the Bronx.  It was the wrong train once again. This time I jumped off at an earlier stop, but with the same results. The attendant did not speak English.

            Back in the large Pennsylvania terminal I began to panic. There was no policeman in sight and no one I queried seemed to know the correct answer. I returned to the platform almost in tears.

            “Hey kid, you look like you’re lost.”

            I turned to see a very, very black man dressed in brown slacks white shirt, tie and a dark brown felt hat. My mother’s warning, “Don’t talk to strangers,” briefly flashed through my mind and just as quickly I dismissed it.

            “Yes sir I am.”

“Where do you live?” I wasted no time telling him.

            “That’s all right boy, I know where you are going. Come with me and I’ll take you there.”

            The only fear I had was of getting lost once again. I went willingly.

            He guided me to different platform and when the train rumbled in he gently nudged me inside and sat down next to me.

            He asked a lot of questions, maybe some I should not have answered, like my parent’s name, our phone number and the names of my brother and sister. I answered all of them and only thought about it later when we pulled into the 176^th Street Station. It was a momentous occasion and I jumped up and started to leave.

            “Thank you mister,” I said.

            “Hold on now son,” he put his very large hand on my shoulder, “I’m getting off here also. And don’t call me mister, my name is Uncle John.”

            Now, at the last minute, I was getting frightened. He walked me down the first set of stairs where the change booth was and turned me around to face him.

“Boy, you never did tell me your name.”

“David sir.” My voice quavered.

“Well all right Mr. David. It was a pleasure meeting you. I’ve got to run and catch the subway back to Penn Station. I live in the other direction.” He pointed south, “You be careful walking home now, you hear.”

We shook hands and he disappeared out of my life, but not out of my memory.
It was a different time.

 David Wainland

david@davidwainland.com

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