Steve Zeitlin is executive director of City Lore. His column is a regular feature of the Newsletter.
NOTE: The New York Folklore Society Newsletter and New York Folklore Journal were replaced by Voices: The Journal of New York Folklore which debuted December, 2000.
New York Folklore Society
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Spring/Summer 1999
SPRING/SUMMER 1999 NEWSLETTER MAIN PAGE
Tony
by Steve Zeitlin
Don’t ask Tony his last name. He can’t deal with that right now. His nerves are shot. Besides, he’s busy trying to make sure the trains
run on time. Tony carries his possessions in a heavy duty green plastic bag that he drags off the train at the Broadway Lafayette stop on the F train. He calls himself a Volunteer New York City Transit Associate. "Volunteer is important," he said, "that’s where the humanitarianism comes into it. I help people who are lost on the platform. The most common mistake people make, especially the Chinese people, is that they think this stop is East Broadway—it says Broadway and it’s on the East Side so they think it’s East Broadway. I tell them they have to take the train two stops down."
Tony’s office is on the last seat in the row of six wooden benches on the east side of the Broadway Lafayette platform. He sprawls out with his butt firmly planted on two cushions that he carries with him at all times for comfort. He takes off his pair of heavy shoes to make himself at home. He dons a gauzy, funky looking veil on his head, held on by a headband, and covering more or less of his face, depending on his mood. And he commandeers the second to the last bench as his gaming table where he can deal cards or move chess pieces to pass the time when he’s not busy with his real job of monitoring the trains on behalf of the greater New York City public.
I met him on the way to work. "Look here," he said, and when Tony talks, people listen because he talks exceedingly loud. He pointed at the bridge column of the Daily News, spread out across the bench. "It says here that this duo broke up their long-standing professional bridge partnership. I used to have a partner, but we broke up. He was more experienced, but he was the one fucking up. The same thing happened to me in pinochle—my partner fucked up."
I carried on a running conversation with Tony over a number of days, always between 9:15 and 9:25 as I stood on the platform.
Day 1, 9:14 a.m.: I sleepwalk down the stairs, only to be jolted awake by the scene of Tony standing on his bench. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he bellows, "this Q train is making all local stops on the F line!"
Day 2, 9:20 a.m.: Tony is asleep at his post.
Day 3, 9:18 a.m.: I finally get up the nerve to start a conversation with Tony. "How are you doing today?"
"I’m breaking in a new deck," he tells me. This time he’s playing a game of solitaire. "The problem with this game," he tells me, "is that there’s an overabundance of losing combinations." I’m reminded of Larry, another homeless man, who lived in a tunnel under the West Side highway, but through it all believed that New York was a land of opportunity. "You just have to be at the right place at the right time," he told photographer Margaret Morton. Then he added, "Unfortunately, I’ve never been at the right place at the right time." An overabundance of losing combinations.
Day 4, 9:26 a.m.: "Do you bowl?" Tony asks me. "You know all my life I always wanted to meet someone who had bowled a 300. Do you know what that is? All strikes, not a single spare. Then just yesterday I met a guy who claimed his younger brother had done it twice!"
Suddenly, Tony gets up on the bench for an announcement. "There is a delay on all B trains downtown." A moment later the official announcement comes on over the loud speaker, hopelessly distorted (the improved speaker system has not yet reached Broadway Lafayette). "You see," Tony says, "the schedules are inside of me. If they weren’t, I’d need an interpreter too!"
Day 5, 9:25 a.m.: "What about that impeachment," I say.
"Ah," he said, "I don’t know what to say about that. Man is not credible. He cheats, he lies. Man is imperfect, and that’s his nature. History speaks for itself."
I get on the train with his line echoing in my head, "Man is not credible. History speaks for itself."
Day 6, 9:23 a.m.: Tony keeps to his schedule like clockwork. And he expects nothing less of his friends. "There was a woman at one of the stations, she was much older—I know she must have died because she stopped coming all at once. There’s nothing else that could have happened. She brought me food and it was great. It came from the NYU cafeteria. Remember the Horn & Hardart that used to be around the corner here? That’s what that food would put you in the mind of.
"It seems that every time I get a good thing going, something goes wrong. There’s too many ways for things to go wrong, and it’s impossible for everything to go right. You just can’t get rid of the element of wrong. The fact that one day your ass is going to be dead, that’s wrong."
"Yo!" Tony takes a wristwatch out of his pocket and gives a thumbs up to the passing conductor of the B train. The train conductor smiles—they all seem to know Tony.
"You know," he says, turning back to me, "We don’t even know what this thing called death is—how do you know what it is like to be dead? Life expectancy is a lot longer, but as far as immortality goes, it just can’t be done. You just can’t get around the hole in the ground. I’m just glad to be alive.
"I just relax and let things happen. I get on trains until I get a feeling to get off. I learned as a little boy that plans are useless. Plans never go the way you expect them to. I don’t have plans."
Day 7, 9:18 a.m.: "You know, Tony," I told him, "you’re such a smart guy. I would love to interview you for the radio." (I coproduce a series called American Talkers for NPR with Dave Isay.)
"Me? Why would you want to interview me?"
"Because you’ve got a lot to say. I’m going to interview you for the American Talkers. It’ll take your voice all over this country." He gave his booming laugh. "We’ll bring the equipment down on Monday."
Again, he laughed. "No problem."
Day 8, 9:00 a.m.: It was just a few days before Christmas. It was freezing but refused to snow. No coat of frosting for this icy town. Stacy and Megan arrived from Dave Isay’s office with backpacks full of equipment, and began setting up the Dat recorder and Senheiser mic. We looked up down the platform. No Tony. We waited as five or six trains to discharged passengers. Our chitchat drifted into silence. Another train. No Tony.
I started to worry about Tony at Christmas time in New York. What if he had died, like his woman friend? As he put it, what other explanation could there be when someone doesn’t show up? At ten o’clock, I apologized to my two co-conspirators. Stacy and Megan disappeared up the two flights of subway stairs to the street. I ducked into the next F train going downtown.
Then I remembered what Tony told me. "Plans. . . ."
Day 9, 9:20 a.m.: The last time I saw Tony, he was clearly in a bad mood. I probably should have left him alone. I asked him what he thought of the news of the day. He waved me aside.
"What I think doesn’t matter. Never did. Never will."
The difference between Tony and me is that I think all of this matters. He knows better. What matters is that the trains run on time.
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