Commentary
The Little Things
Two years after the start of the pandemic, a pervasive edginess settles over NYC.
March 2022. There’s something not right in New York, the city where I live. There’s an unsettling angst that has moved in like a fog, a feeling that we’re hanging on tenterhooks. Many feel a sense of impunity, and that rules and norms no longer apply, that anything goes.
I wonder if it’s the same elsewhere, big cities and small ones, post-pandemic? Or is the anxiety endemic to large places where anonymity is the norm, and where people can walk among the shadows, absent strong communities and neighborhood groups.
Of course, New York is not for everyone. A friend shared that he recently had a phone conversation with someone who had never been here, resolutely stating she would never be here. Indiana suited her just fine. But for me, and many others, there’s no better place to call home. Therefore, the concern goes deep.
This ‘anything goes’ attitude reminds me of those grammar school days when we had a substitute teacher with a reputation for losing control of the class. Suddenly we were bowling without guardrails. The gutter awaited us. Fortunately, these blips usually lasted but a day. Everything would revert to normal when the regular teech came back.
The pandemic era, now in its third year, feels like one long stint with a substitute teacher. So many of the little things that make life more pleasant in a big city have slowly eroded away. Some of these little things took decades to cultivate, but they made city life civil, and gave us permission to gloat. We’d gotten used to bragging that it was “the safest big city in the country.” Then came the pandemic. I haven’t walked this vigilantly since that crazy period of the seventies and eighties. For those born after that period, they never have.
The empty storefronts don’t help. On some blocks, after the dinner hour, you almost expect to see tumbleweeds rolling through. And the few stores open after nine are hollowed out versions of their former self. The chain drugstore shelves are empty, and the employees are shell-shocked from dealing with rude customers and organized shoplifters leading with Mace.
The frozen yogurt places used to be lively fun places to visit, full of families and kids. Now they are dirty, undermanned, and completely unappetizing. The counter workers have given up, leaving the tray of toppings in disarray, and no one is cleaning the floors under the self-serve dispensers. The tiles are so sticky you worry you might step out of your shoe.
When there’s a sense of impunity, you know who takes advantage. In my class, it was always Freddie. Well, there’re lots of Freddies out there. There’s a Freddie who decided that turning over the corner garbage bins along Lexington Avenue was fun — why not do it on every block, on every night? A copycat, perhaps a disoriented cow-tipper from Indiana, has chosen planters instead, spilling the topsoil of feckless trees and hardy bushes.
There’s an apprehensive mood in the subways, just like when word got out that the class bully had ordered itching powder from the back pages of the comic books and was looking for vulnerable shirt collars. Nothing raises the temperature like seeing the pole-dancing posse enter the subway car with their powered speaker, signaling the start to their hustle. The crew announces their man is ready to perform, and that no one should worry about a kick in the face, hollow assurances as his soles come within inches of your soul. Some pole gymnasts add a vaudevillian glitz, but are so bad they miss every hat roll using an old shapeless Met baseball cap. Nevertheless, the hat-flipper deems the routine worthy of getting paid, slapping hard the metal wall just above the heads of cowering passengers. He wants everyone to stop playing Wordle, and drop a few coins into his limp cap—wait, no coins; only bills accepted. Intimidation seems counterproductive to their aim, and when no one pays, pole dancing also seems counterproductive.
Smoking on the platforms used to be a rare sight, maybe a very late night scene. Now, I witness it on almost every trip. No one says anything for fear of being pushed onto the tracks or pummeled on the head with a hammer — what’s the deal with so many attacks featuring a hammer? Those hurt. Those hurt people.
Then, there are the sleepers, sometimes three or more bodies laying across the seats, shoes tucked in neatly under the seat — a new tidy homeless. Everyone on the platform races over to the next car. Perhaps we should convert one car per train into a sleeping car. Seems to me the new mayor has a tough mission to get people back to mass transit till we sort out the sleeper car problem.
Mayor Adams has put more police underground, usually in groups of three, but many also seem to be concentrating on Wordle. No wonder the New York Times bought the puzzle. It’s addictive. The cops haven’t yet made a dent in helping civility return, but their presence helps. Perhaps once everyone is unmasked, things will improve. Masked and anonymous just adds up to wanton behavior and poor reviews.
Cycling used to be a hobby of the fit. Now, it is a hobby of the unfit. During the “flatten the curve” days of the pandemic, it seemed the only ones on the streets were the delivery men. They were our heroes, keeping everyone safely off the streets and in isolation, delivering much needed supplies. With the streets mostly empty, they made up their own traffic rules.
Over a period of a few months, they switched from pedaling to darting on battery-powered bikes. Their need for fresh batteries helped turn parking garages into the source for charged-battery exchanges — it always seems odd seeing the steady flow of those heavy delivery bicycles riding to the rear of these lots.
Before the pandemic, it was unusual to see bike riders on the sidewalk, maybe a CitiBike neophyte. Now, on almost every trip to the store, an e-bike or scooter flies by on what Jane Jacobs called our public square. I’m not against wheeled devices on the sidewalk, just none that move faster than the walker my elderly neighbor uses to get around. It’s possible that once the sidewalks turn back into the public square, with a greater volume of pedestrians, the bikes will be forced back onto the mean streets.
Going with traffic rather than against it seems a no-brainer. Explaining collision physics to wrong-way riders will not change minds, but something needs to be done to eliminate collisions with pedestrians that are keeping EMTs and ERs busy. We are all used to traffic moving in one direction, so remember to look both ways, even on one-way streets. That’s a PSA, for the near-misses are spine-chilling.
You might ask, how about getting the e-bikes to stop for red lights? Nah, that’s too hard. Let’s stay with the little things.
Lest I sound anti-bicycles, I am not. I’m for more people using them, but the rapid uptake of these fast-moving electric devices has outdistanced our ability to set common-sense rule. Sit and watch the Central Park loop. Runners and bicyclists are squeezed to the inner lanes by dozens of speeding two- and one-wheelers running on electric power, and moving faster than the cabs that once roamed there.
We’ve all heard of pandemic pups. They helped many with the isolation. Sure, Pugsley is cuddly, but he came without a manual for city living. Twice a day, when Pugsley goes out to do this business, he barks at dogs twice his size when he should bark at his owner for not scooping. Fresh poop becomes another sidewalk hazard. And when a few ignore the rules, many others feel empowered to do the same — see also, boarding the bus through the back door. Given the minefield on some blocks, perhaps even veteran dog owners, who know better, have decided not to bother either. The problem is especially bad after it snows— “watch out where the huskies go.”*
For over two years, the COVID pandemic has disrupted the world. I’m hesitant to say that it looks like we are coming out of the pandemic after previous flawed predictions, but it does. With the spring-forward weekend here and the start of spring approaching, one can only hope the little things, the social norms, revert to pre-pandemic days. We need to feel and act like the regular teech is back so we can once again brag that we live in the safest big city.
. . .
*Don’t Eat Yellow Snow by Frank Zappa
