Trifter

“I know what is moral is what you feel good after, and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.”

-Ernest Hemingway 

Hundreds of small towns and markets build the foundation of New York City, and Astor Place adds a pinch of exotic spice to the melting pot. Leading directly to Broadway, the open square provides ample space for the hustlers, the rioters, the freaks, and the mentally ill. Even the sight of a woman stripped to bare insanity presents no surprise.

Sitting between Lafayette Street and 3rd Avenue, Astor Place beacons all manner of tourist, student, and skateboarder. A circus of bicyclers, writers, photographers, businessmen and couples constantly congregate around the square’s center ring. This concrete traffic isle houses Tony Rosenthal’s famous sculpture; the plaque at its base reads, “Alamo,” but most refer to the piece as, simply, “The Cube.” A large, black metal structure mounted on one corner, The Cube spins vertically on its axis when pushed like a child’s merry-go-round. Rosenthal’s balanced work brings art and creativity to its commercialized surroundings. Ironically, a tent of unbalance surrounds the teetering black die.  

The block’s centerpiece frequently plays host to the weirdoes and the screw heads. Vagrants make Cube Island a temporary home, sleeping five feet from students studying beneath the sculpture’s relieving shade. Tourists dressed in sandals and L.L. Bean shorts flock to capture “that big black box” on film, while drunks and juvenile delinquents ask, “Who can spin this fuckin’ thing faster?” Dizzying themselves into vomiting frenzies, only losers emerge from this sport.

Most New Yorker’s know Astor Place as “the corner of Starbucks and Starbucks.” A subway station sits between the two coffee shops, a Gaza Strip dividing the corporate beaneries. On the block’s south end stands Chase Manhattan Bank, a glaring glass tower and a pimple on the face of the East Village. This eyesore conflicts with the surrounding architecture as savagely as Huckleberry Finn and civilized society. Like the wrecked steamboat on the Mississippi, thieves lurk inside, ready to pounce on unsuspecting passersby. With consistently heavy traffic and a constant stream of pedestrians, businessmen recruit the gullible with false promises packaged in colorful brochures. Perched on light poles, pigeons perform their daily duty, giving the chickenshit CEO hurrying to work a designer white toupee. Nearby, musicians and fruit vendors peddle their talents and wares to the hungry and easily entertained.  

Any sane person would grab a .357 Magnum and flee at the sight of these atrocities. However, no New Yorker understands sanity, thus Astor Place serves as a convenient and popular thoroughfare between Lafayette and Broadway. It was here, on my way home, I saw the mad woman. The sun was shining, and a crisp February wind made quick work of numbing my face. Winter wind in Manhattan produces the same effect as Novocain, and like Novocain, the only choice is to ride it out. Approaching The Cube, I sensed something odd blowing with the wind, the frigid air of calamity. Strangely, the steady flow of traffic was absent, a foreboding sign. A large crowd gathered on the sidewalk ahead, and policemen stood behind blockades at either end of the street. Flashing red and blue lights lit the entire area. Bad vibrations. Desperate to witness the commotion, I began working through the crowd. The mass formed a large circle around the block’s new main attraction.

After encountering the ghost of Hamlet’s father, Marcellus famously observes, “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” Maybe the New York Police Department should paint Shakespeare’s warning on their barricades rather than the standard “Police Line: Do Not Cross.” I soon reached the circle’s center and immediately saw what was rotten in Astor Place. 

A woman stood on Cube Island. Her long, graying hair and gaunt face gave her the look of Frankenstein’s bride, a burn out caricature of Elsa Lanchester. There was madness in her eyes. The bourbon bottle in her right hand clearly indicated intoxication. Completely twisted, she showed a combination of passion and madness that attracted the growing crowd. Maybe her attire drew the attention: a black jacket, athletic socks, and pink panties. Maybe her speech drew more attention. Traffic stalled, and the crowd roared with laughter as the crazed drunk spread her arms as an eagle spreads its wings, stared toward the heavens, and repeatedly screamed,”OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” Policemen snickered and looked on from behind blue barriers; the scene lasted nearly twenty minutes before an arrest was made for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. Holden Caulfield once remarked, “People always clap for the wrong things.” J.P. Salinger’s rebel was right. 

A homeless man glanced at the scene from his sidewalk residence down the street. Stanley, a man of about fifty, presented the customary scruffy appearance. His long beard and gritty face bore a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein fresh from the spider hole. He wore no shoes, only socks with more holes than Swiss cheese. Always found seated on his cardboard raft, Stanley picked up change as it floated by and talked to whoever drifted his way. Most sailed past without making eye contact, tuning out his pleas for change with the sound of impatient traffic. Others became quite enraged at his requests, shouting, “Get a job you fuckin’ loser!” Stanley took whatever came along life’s river in stride, and waves of wisdom always broke through his toothless mouth. As they say, never judge the book by the cover. I later came to know Stanley as a Solomon among Manhattan’s homeless.

After my encounter with the pink-pantied banshee, Stanley quickly brushed the story aside as commonplace; “Just a crack in the dam, kid. Happens every day. Man, people like me have tickin-time bombs in their brains. What you saw up the block, that wasn’t nothin, just a gun goin off.” We talked for a while, and Stanley told many stories. His former neighbor in the 10th street alleyway once shot a convenience store clerk for a profit of twenty-three dollars; he was found dead the next morning, the needle still in his vein. Another man with a strong appetite for hops ripped out his own tooth in exchange for three dollars and twelve cents. Stanley witnessed many scenes ensue over pennies that would make Tom Sawyer proud, and it was from Stanley I first learned of the Astor Place Riot.

The battle of Astor Place occurred in 1849, catalyzed by two Shakespearian actors, Edwin Forrest and William C. Macready. The rivals continually argued over acting ability. It seems their fans came to no consensus either. During a performance of Macbeth at the Astor Place Opera House, Macready eloquently contemplated murder; “That we but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague th’inventor.” Unfortunately for Macready, a stampede of drunken elephants quickly stormed the theatre, armed to the teeth with pitchforks and torches. An air of smoke and booze filled the building as Shakespeare’s famous soliloquy was cut short. Birnam Wood erupted in violence. Forrest vs. Macready. McDuff vs. Macbeth. Chaos ignited in the square as theatre patrons stoked the fire to its final level, violence. Police ultimately lost control of the inferno, firing into the crowd. Only the National Guard’s arrival brought the riot to its bloody conclusion. 25 dead. 120 injured. Indeed, the Opera House put on a better show that night than Ford’s Theatre during the Lincoln assassination. 

A beggar lazed against a nearby fence post. Stone drunk on looted liquor, he stared in awe as rioters engulfed the entire block. A small piece of wood smeared with black writing leaned against his side.  It said, “God is good, so is people. Please help.”  The mob quickly trampled the vagrant. The body was found wearing only a tattered shirt and torn pants. The wood remained at the beggar’s side, broken into several pieces.  

Stanley himself possessed an array of intriguing cardboard requests: “Voldemort stole my wand, need money for new one,” “Need money for NYU Tuition,” and “A bum stole my other sign, need money for new one.” Before I moved on, I asked the question everyone asks who passes his way, with their mouths or with their heads; “Why?” His answer surprised me.

Stanley, the beggar, the bum, the vagrant, served two tours of duty in Afghanistan. Combat infantry. He killed men and saw many friends blown to pieces. During his absence, Stanley’s wife attained power of attorney, stealing all his money and possessions. Stanley returned home to a cardboard suite on the corner of Astor and Broadway. Thousands pass each day, and some wonder why they miss Stanley in his absence. Before I left, Stanley gave a piece of advice; “Be kind to everyone, Brother. Man, kindness is contagious, and refusing a kind deed is the ultimate selfishness.” I walked away without leaving change.

That afternoon’s paper contained an article about a homeless man found dead leaning over a stolen shopping cart. He leaned against that buggy like a broom for three days before a good samaritan finally took notice. Reading the article, I found myself struck by the author’s frequent use of the word “bum.”  Webster defines “bum” as “a person who is deemed despicable or contemptible.” Stanley preached only kindness, even to those who smashed bottles of insults and obscenities over his head. His reputation was never one of despicability. Who were the real bums in Astor Place that cold February afternoon, the woman who tore off her pants and screamed at traffic, or the crowd entertained by the loss of a person’s sanity?  Lying in bed that night, I pondered the events of the day. Sleep came slowly, and I felt bad.