Sandy the Has-Been and her Life at 711 Beach Street

If this was an ordinary day, in an ordinary time, the story of  powerless 711 Beach 6th Street in Far Rockaway, Queens, could have seen some ink in the morning papers.  A network truck may have pulled up at the entrance, and then another.  A post of a timely cell phone photo or clip may  have caught share-fire and started a movement through social media.  But Chelsea and FIDI in downtown Manhattan have their power back, and  it's been nearly 2 weeks since Sandy made landfall, so we're way past  the expiration date on any juice coming out of that carton.  Sandy's  not fresh anymore and the media has moved America's attention to a  story that never gets old.  Once upon a time, a high profile mister cheated on his misses...

I first heard about 711 from a friend's post on Facebook yesterday.  (This friend must have developed some kind of weird immunity to the  news media to still be posting stuff like this - a little concerning,  if you ask me.)  The post was a re-post from a gentleman who had  volunteered there previously, describing the building's enormity (25  stories) and the large population of seniors inhabiting it.  The post  was an outright alarm, and its most startling message was this: "At  711 Beach 6 in FAR ROCKWAYS they carried out 3 dead bodies!!!"

I started to think it through.  3 dead bodies?  How?  No one was drowning there - we're talking about a high rise residential complex.  25 stories, no electricity, immobile ailing seniors up on the top  floors - you do the math.  And now for some advanced algebra - what  oftentimes precedes death?  That's right!  Suffering.  But on what scale I would have to see for myself.

As I entered the streets of Far Rockaway it quickly became apparent  that the entire area was still without power.  I saw 711 from a distance at first.  Its windows uniformly grey, as in an abandoned  building on death row, awaiting demolition.  But being abandoned is far from what it was.  When I arrived and entered the lobby, there was plenty of activity.  Boxes of basic necessities and donated items left in the lobby by a series of volunteers and organizations were being scoured by residents to be brought back to their apartments.  A gentleman pointed out the building super to me who through the circumstances of this disaster has been promoted by default to "fearless leader."  As fearless leaders go, they are expected to have all the answers to all the questions, no matter how trivial.  When I approached him he was busy trying to explain to two elderly Russian  women who didn't speak a word of English that their flashlight wasn't  turning on because the bulb in it was broken. I relayed the message, but they found this response to be absolutely impossible.  Normally I would find myself laughing this off as standard Russian granny antics, but in this case, when everything else has already gone wrong  and then your flashlight bulb breaks too, you can't help but wonder  what probability's problem is.

I asked him general questions about the situation in the building.  What kind of assistance is being given to the residents.  How are folks on the top floors who are not in capacity to trek the stairs being provided for?  Are they receiving medical care as necessary?  The responses were all "calming," as though everyone is  being taken care of, and unsurprisingly not specific.  But what did I expect.  Every person is their own story and set of needs, there must  be hundreds of them there, and I know that my source doesn't speak all the languages in which some of those stories can be told and spends at least part of his time inspecting flashlight bulbs.

I started up the stairs.  At around the 7th floor I ran into an  elderly black woman on her way down.  She carried a very positive spirit whose message if paraphrased plainly was "this sucks, but I'm okay."  She  couldn't say the same for everyone.  She made mention of the 3 dead  bodies, told another story of a woman who had a heart attack, and a  third of her 500lb neighbor, who persuaded by his relatives, tried to leave the building but couldn't make it down the stairs and had to be taken out by the fire department.  Wait a second mister super...  these stories aren't really giving me that "everything is under control" feeling.  If by "everyone is being taken care of" you mean you can get the FDNY to promptly remove folks that are dead or about  to be dead, then you got some steppin'-up-your-game to do, and fast.

I kept trekking.  Up to the top floor.  I rang doorbells of doors behind which no one was home.  Maybe they are home I thought, but can't get to the door or cry for help.  Maybe I'm inches away from a  paralyzed body of a helpless senior and don't even know it - but what can I do besides hope that no one's home?

I rang more bells, and some doors did open.  The occupants of the first few assured me that they're fine and have everything they need.  The hallway was cold, and when one woman opened the door I felt a burst of heat spill out of her place.  She told me the stove was  working.  There was gas, and you could get it started with a match.  Well, that's something.

The doors all had markings on them.  A date of "11/9/12" and some  line(s) that I assumed indicated that an apartment is vacant or not.  I reached a door on the 23rd floor with two crossed lines, the number  2, the date and this: "1400 Russian Need Insulin."  I rang the bell and received an immediate response.  It was the barking of a dog, which was followed by a nearing voice attempting to calm it down.  Then the sound of the door lock turn - before I knew it, the little fluff ball was wagging his tail and sniffing me out.  He knew what  was up and wasn't ashamed to bark it. "Yo this guy lives in Brooklyn and has power," he said in dog slang.  "Go inside to daddy"  (translated from Russian) the grandma now standing in the doorway ordered.  The same warmth spilled out of the opened door of this apartment as did the previous one.  I said hello and explained that I'm walking around and asking if anyone is in dire need of anything.  She took this as an open invitation to tell her story, and I welcomed it.  She was in the apartment with her husband.  The husband uses a walker, and they're both very old - so walking down to the lobby is not an option.  But that people do come around occasionally distributing the basics.  Later I asked if they had any relatives that they could stay with.  She told me she had a son who lives in Jersey and  who just got power there himself the other day, but that it wouldn't  really be realistic to go with him as getting down those stairs from the 23rd floor without an elevator would be near impossible.

She said there were soldiers in the building on 11/09 - they're the  ones that left the markings on the doors.  She told me about the insulin note.  She said they need it, and that they were given it,  except that they weren't given the injection needles - which makes the whole thing as useful as this one four letter word I know.  Luckily, she said they have a home attendant who's been very good to them and staying on top of bringing all the necessities.  She's due in on Monday with the needles.

At this point she was pleased to be speaking to someone, or anyone who would listen, and she invited me in.  Her husband was sitting in the dark kitchen, his face illuminated by the light of a candle and the stove burners.  We kept chatting, and I realized that I uh... had  to pee.  What I hadn't realized was that there was no water.  I  figured there was no hot water, or drinkable water, but I thought  that there was at least cold water.  So I asked to use the bathroom.  She didn't object, although she did say "только по маленькому," which doesn't translate well from Russian, but basically means "go small or go home."  No warning on the water, though I guess I should have put two and two together - but I didn't.  I walked in, closed the door, turned on the flashlight, lifted the cover, and wanted to cease existing in that moment.  One whiff later and I thought my wish was about to come true.  The bowl was up to near the top with urine.  Two week old urine.  Reeking, disgusting, contaminated two week old urine.  I dropped the cover and ran.  The husband looked at me, knowing now that I know what's there, and with utter sadness said "and these are the conditions in which we live." I was appalled, and I wasn't afraid to say it.  It was more than I  would normally want to know, but it just came out of me "what do you  do for number two?!?"  The woman had no reservations about telling me.  She described in full detail the process of using a handbag.  I  wasn't really listening though.  As soon as I heard handbag my brain  malfunctioned.  Holy shit!!! What the fuck kind of American Dream was this?!  Senior citizens being left alone on the 23rd floor to piss into a contaminated bowl of two week old urine and shit into handbags?  And everything is under control, mister super?  Mayor  Bloomberg?  Help Me Howard?  Anyone?!?!

I moved on, knocked on more doors, heard more stories.  One guy, not a senior but badly disabled and unable to carry much up from downstairs is dealing with not getting a lot of the necessary medication he needs.  His local doctor's office is closed, and he's afraid to go to a hospital for fear of overcrowding and catching something else he doesn't need or want.  His morale of the whole  situation is low, whose wouldn't be?  But it's not helped by hurtful words of the people who are supposedly there to help.  Among the  already full list of indignities all these people are enduring, he had to be there when a group of Russian volunteers knocked on his door and offered help, provided that he was Russian, because the Cold  War is still on in Far Rockaway.  "You know what else I'm not that you are? An asshole.  Attention: calling all Russians and assholes to get priority assistance."  Well, that's what I would have said in that gentleman's place, but of course I wouldn't be in it because I was lucky enough to be born in the USSR.  But instead he just went back into his dark apartment and continued... not eating?  That's right.  He told me he was hardly eating because of the whole needing to go to the bathroom thing.  I guess the handbag potty invention  hadn't made it to his floor yet.  I'm sure that when it does his appetite will do a cartwheel and spring back to life.  So there you have it - sitting in a dark apartment  alone, unable to get medicine, not eating to avoid having to use the bathroom, and waiting for American help, in America.

It got dark outside and the hallways were pitch black.  I went back downstairs where there were still people scouring the boxes under the light of cell phones and flashlights.  A young couple from the  building started talking to me about the general shittiness of it all.  They said the same things anyone would say, and they all meant "how is this possible?"  On the way home I realized that not once during the entire time I was at 711 did I actually hear the word "Sandy."  And it is because Sandy isn't the enemy anymore.  Sandy is gone, and gone with her is the attention of the media.  Gone to read  explicit emails, because sex sells, and shitty handbags don't.

A Different, Kind, of Swing

This last Thursday, June 28th, 2012, I decided to take a quick trip to Central Park in the early hours of the evening with the intent of taking some photos.  I arrived at Columbus Circle and took a short walk inside the park before my sense of photographic potential pressured me to reevaluate the plan.  It looked like not a lot of light was making it into the park past the trees and west side buildings as the sun was setting behind them.  The scenery looked dull and fading, so I decided to leave the park and follow the sun.  The path of cosmic distance landed me all the way at... Lincoln Center, immeasurable light years and five blocks away.

There was an event.  It had a sign - "Midsummer Night Swing."  To many people, I'm sure, this was planning, this was organizing, this was work.  To others who came there that day it was something they'd been looking forward to, an occasion, perhaps a good excuse for a date.  But to me it was just something I had stumbled upon, experienced, and now remember through my own perceptions and photos.

When I arrived at Lincoln Center I found myself instantly in the middle of good swing music and people dancing (or is it dancing people?).  I say "good swing music" like I know what I'm talking about, when in reality the only times I've ever even heard it was in the movies.  But an environment like this will make you know things about yourself you didn't know before.  Just look what it's done to this guy...

And bear in mind that no picture could accurately represent his oozing swagger - for that you had to be there!  I bet all he knew before was rock'n'roll, but look at him now, a transformed man.  Reborn and reconstructed into a solo swing dance phenomenon!  An envy of all men, like the guy in the blue shirt behind him whose melancholy expression could be accurately read as thinking "he gets all the girls..."

But enough of the mainstream reporting, I'll let the press sell the king of swing.  These words are reserved for the people without pseudonyms.  Truly it was a pretty remarkable thing to see so many people, strangers, meeting, sharing in the moment, dancing together.  Why do I say remarkable?  Because I know these people.  I see them every day on the trains of New York City's subway system.  System of abject misery.  Trust me, no one is dancing with strangers there.  The whole thing is totally analogous to plants.  Lifeless and unremarkable seeds underground, but once transcended have a serious potential to bloom in cool and exciting ways under the right nourishment of lights and rhythm.  So yes, people were dancing, and many of them, as though under strict orders from Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction, danced good.

I ran around trying to squeeze my way through the inconveniently arranged formations of onlookers to snap some of these clear frame (meaning without extraneous foreground body parts in confusing positions) shots of the dancing while there was still enough light.  The dancing continued well into the evening, but it was a school night after all and as the light started to seriously fade out I decided to put away my camera and go say hi to my subway friends.  Just a heads up, the rest of this post is very sentimental, so if you're not into that kind of kink, read the next line and believe it - otherwise, skip the next line.

And that was that.  The end.

On my way out of the square I decided to turn around and have a look, just in case there was a good shot I may have missed of the whole scene from the back.  What I saw on that turn stopped me.  It changed the course of my thoughts from then until... well, obviously it's still on my mind if I'm writing about it now.  It was a moment that I knew I was the only one witnessing.  An old woman crippled in a wheelchair, there, at what is very likely the last "Midsummer Night Swing" in her lifetime, accompanied by her caretaker.  What she really was was a care giver, unlike any I've ever seen.  I pulled the camera out of the bag.

I've seen caretakers before.  Miserable faces covering the shift countdown clock mechanisms ticking within.  Not that I can blame anyone for not acting chipper.  Taking care of an elderly person sounds like an incredibly difficult job that I couldn't imagine feeling upbeat about.  But this woman was different.  She had an amazing spirit, enthusiasm, and goodwill about her that yielded life to the elder woman's last days.  She locked hands and eyes with her.  She smiled at her earnestly.  She moved their arms in a rhythmic dancing motion to the music.  And it all looked so genuine, heartfelt, and sincere.  I knew that of all the wonderful things I saw that day, this by leaps and bounds was the most special.  It's easy to like good music and smile at friendly people who want to dance with you.  It's a million times harder when you have to do the dancing in her shoes.  I came around in front of them because I knew the significance of the facial expressions to portraying this scene.

My repositioning turned on the spotlight.  What's going on?  Why is the guy with the camera not facing the direction of the stage?  What is he photographing?  And then they saw it.  Once pointed to, it would be impossible for anyone not to recognize what was on display.  Heads turned.  A young family passed in front of me, amiably infused by the scene they stopped to say some friendly words.  A little boy in his father's hands at the other end of his lifeline looking, as if through a telescope of age, at what the ending is like.  Sad and scary by definition, but just this once, with the smoke and mirrors of someone's sheer kindness, made to look a little better, a little more bearable, a little more okay.

Gambler

It was one of those days, coming off a rough night of deep losses from one unlucky bad beat hand of hold'em. Still shaking the pulsating hangover that was included in the fifteen hundred dollar price. May not be a lot to a high roller, but I'm not in that league. Never have been, and with the way things are going, never will be. That was yesterday. My identity, like my anger at the river card, was transparent. Everyone at the table knew who I was, what I did, knew the highs that drove me, and I knew as much about them. Today I'm walking around the city seen by those who pass me by as just another stranger. Who? Some guy in a fedora. A hipster on his way to a trendy coffee shop? A self categorized "creative type." Another hopeless romantic with a naive dream of making it big - creating obscure art in some squalid Williamsburg shack. A local. A tourist. Plays guitar. Speaks a foreign language. Speaks two. Doesn't. Ten thousand other invented half second possibilities, one for each pair of eyes. That's not my story, it's theirs. Assumptions based on zero. We all make them.

Me? I'm just a gambler.