Into the world of work spins Mother

Dressed in a bright white nurse's uniform with her little cap and spotless shoes
that were religiously polished every evening at dusk with Sani-white, she hastened
toward the train as always. How easy it would have been for her to take the car
and park it at the station, but Mother would hear none of that for she was quite
robust and much in need of the exercise! A brief appearance at the In & Out Shop
for a coffee and the morning paper was always in order for the day. Then it was
down the old concrete staircase. Once there she would stand behind the yellow
line on the platform with other passengers of the day, lost in waiting.

Gazing at her old Movado watch the time read 6:40.

She would have dipped into her purse for a cigarette had she not quit three years ago.
Ah yes, those Benson & Hedges I remember so well. What a horrible addiction it was
and that damn smoke was everywhere! Puffing away like a fiend at the drop of a hat for
no reason at all, but to fulfill an addiction. Every time she lit a cigarette I'd be flying. . .



If it was cold out, light a cigarette.
If she ate too much she'd light a cigarette. 
If an electrical fire had started in the basement,
I'm pretty sure before she threw herself out the bedroom window,
she would be clutching a pack of those minty smelling, cancer causing, little marvels.

When I was real young she used to torture me, and on several occasions I throw up in
the car. That was mainly because whenever my mother lit a cigarette, the windows were
either shut tight or rolled down only about an inch. Must've been some kind of groovy
fad they had going on back then in the early seventies because everyone was doing it.

If I'm not mistaken, the name of the game was called, "kill the person you're with."

Around the bend she could hear the train approaching. As it slowed to a screeching
halt where other citizens of the morning stood, the doors slid ever so gently open.
One by one they got on and everyone found their prospective seats. Not so lucky
were the people at the New Dorp station who seldom got a seat. There, some chose
to wait for the next train. "Please step away from the closing doors" said the conductor
in a refreshing voice that was interpreted by the intercom as "pzistst shheb avray
rhumm tde crosching draws." Then the bell sounded and the doors slid tightly closed.
Only then, did the train gently begin to pull away from the station. Each stop welcomed
more passengers who boarded. Some wandered on as if in a robotic trance while others
accepted their chore of duty with affluent grace. There were even a few straphangers who
appeared so miserable that Mother thought they might be happier standing in front of the
train than on it. Overall, the ride usually takes about fifteen minutes, but today it would be
about twenty. Before long, mother would be arriving at her destination.



Getting off in Clifton, Mother walks casually across the street to the Navajo brown
building, located on a neighboring hillside. It is called United States Public Health
Service Hospital and would require eleven stops on the Staten Island Rapid Transit line.
While the outmoded structure would appear somewhat haunting at night to a passerby,
its commodious interior was still busting with hyperactivity.

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Who had to get what done first and what needed to be done next had not stopped at all this century.
Time moves on in its usual fashion as always, but when you are sitting in that office, it feels like the
old electric wall clock is still calibrated to 1942. There is nothing in that whole entire room that has
been made before 1940, including Mother! Most of the time she's there a half hour early to read
the paper or to chat with her colleagues before starting. Today, she's right on time.

In her office, you will find a big industrial fan situated in the corner to get her through a roaring hot
summer and two big cast iron radiators to keep her comfortable as the snow falls and the wind chill
drops below zero. The windows in that building are enormous and still bear sash weights concealed
within the confines of a sliding sash. Windows you can open and close with two fingers instead of
two arms. Window frames made of solid wood! Not cheap aluminum replacements or even that
white plastic garbage as seen in many typically renovated homes. Whenever I'm there my mind fills
with images of world war II and big Sherman tanks! I can imagine those war planes flying overhead
with loud propellers and when you turn to look out the window, you almost expect to see them coming!



Mother doesn't think much of it. She says, "when you've been here as long as I have, you become
acclimated." She also tells me one day she hopes to have a modern office. That the room is too dreary,
like it's always raining outside. I've always found that to be rather pleasant if not totally exhilarating!

Often I would go there for a shot and while I was there I would make sure to take my time
strolling down those long impressive hallways. As I gazed about ever observing my environment,
I would find nothing had really changed since the McKinley administration. I must admit the exterior
face of the building's facade is a bit uninteresting and perhaps quite drab, but overall it served its
purpose and its country quite well. The way the floral arrangement is presented on the bright green
lawn which is cordoned off by the dark wrought iron gate, and the way it is always kept perfectly
mowed for all to see is an advantage. It infers you are entering a clean establishment, and that is
very important, but not necessarily true. The archaic gate not only surrounds the lawn, but it also
encompasses the entire hospital. Every ten years or so the maintenance crew were paid to paint it
black. You cannot enter without first seeing the guard alongside the building in his little security booth.
You either show him your card or he phones in an extension of the person you are coming to see,
thus confirming your appointment by decree.

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What I find to be the most interesting about this hospital is the basement.
Walking down those long inviting corridors you can literally see the changing of time.
Look up and you will find hundreds of ancient pipes aligning the ceiling going to and
fro and how strange they are to see! The asbestos wrap coming free from the pipes
and the discoloration of the exposed material is quite formidable, to put it mildly.



Down the narrow winding hallway, you will see a scabrous trail of paint that
has fallen to the floor like snowflakes. Along the walls of the high ceiling and
six feet down one can see the old paint curling up like innocuous leaves growing.
Only recently has it been touched up, but only to the point where the wall inverts.

I can recall stepping on one of the olive green shards back in 1969 when I was
admitted for scarlet fever. It made a distinct crunching sound, almost like I had
stepped on a small fragment of a light bulb. Gazing down at those tiny slivers
beneath my feet, I just could not shake the feeling that I had been taken there
to die. Needless to say, everyone was friendly to me because my mother was
an integral part of their organization. Being a good nurse does require a fair
amount of camaraderie and that was comforting. Even so, I could not visualize
ever returning to a normal state again due to the bizarre disorientating effect of
the viral infection. Aside from a persistent fever that would not break, I had the
horrible sensation of a nightmarish post-nasal drip. The thick mucus coating
which had adhered to the back of my throat like Elmer's glue left me swallowing
endlessly, yet to no avail. So numb and raw was this area that a simple swallow
resulted in great torment. Like sharp metal objects in a region of Novocain or
swallowing over a thousand impressed thorns, it simply did not wish to end, and
I refused to cry. Though I languished in misery while waiting for the end to come.   



I ponder through a looking glass
The mirror of the mind
To see what lies in wait
Time has me confined

To imagine the world put into perspective from a distant time; one
which precedes our own can be quite an incentive for the stimulus
of the senses when the rationalization of coming forth in an apathetic
society proves to be disheartening. Yes we have more than we had
before, this goes for any age, but we lose a little bit of ourselves
each time we turn over our values for technological advancements.



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Do yourself a favor, if you are from out of town and decide to visit this wonderful city of New
York, make sure in your travels you remember to include McSorley's old ale house. Just tell the
cabbie to take you to the little saloon on 15 East 7th Street. Trust me, you will not be sorry. 



Unless you are a recovering alcoholic, then I would strongly advise against it!

During the daytime hours when it's quiet you can look around and take your share
of pictures. If you're not a picture buff, and you enjoy being in crowded places,
then I suggest you go there at night. Better yet, go there on a Friday or Saturday
night. If you are an introvert then doing this will be like committing social suicide!
On the weekend, there is a man standing by the door. This man will only let people
in as people exit because the little pub tends to get too crowded and regardless of
what time it is or how many people are inside, last call is 1 am, like it or not.

On a good night, it may take you ten minutes just to reach the bathroom! When inside
be sure to check out those antique porcelain stand-up urinals! They all have that
transparent crackle effect, which can be found on old china and dishware dating back
hundreds of years. It's funny how the passing of time can bring out that shattered effect
but yet allow it to still remain as a whole object intact and undamaged. If them urinals
are original, I would say they date back to 1854 when they built the place! I can only
hope the old ale house is still serving people long after I've been planted.



They have a saying in McSorley's inscribed on a wooden plaque that hangs within the
establishment. It reads "Be Good or Be Gone." It must have been referring to those
ruffians of yesteryear who lived as people lived in the Wild West! Even as they grew
older they still behaved as though they were in seventh grade making damn sure they
would find a reason to kick some poor guy's ass before day's end! I am happy in knowing
that the only things they are pushing nowadays are the lilies in an old defunct graveyard.
Chances are you will no longer see any troublemakers in McSorley's. It is because people
today have more respect for history than those hooligans of age's past. You might, however,
see a leprechaun or two if you tie a good enough load on but don't embarrass yourself by
asking the bartender for a mixed drink! This is an Irish pub, and you will only find light
and dark suds served here.

Close your eyes, you've walked into another time. A time where sawdust is still sprinkled
on wooden floors. As you order yourself a hamburger and a beer, pause to reflect in silence
the years gone by while observing the museum-like atmosphere captured in time by pictures
and paintings that adorn its walls. See the cash register still in use from a time when they had
first come about. Look around. See the cobwebs sagging down from wishbones left behind
by young men of the Civil war, who had not returned to claim them. They are, in fact, still
fighting. If you should go there in winter, gaze at the pot belly stove in the middle of the room
and see how effective it works in keeping the whole establishment warm. Get a feel of how life
use to be and be thankful for all you have now. Look out in the twilight hours of the day and if
you are lucky, you may see snow coming down on the cobblestone street. Watch as it falls right
outside the window where seldom a car will pass. People walk by but not that many, and it isn't
long before inebriation unfurls a sad truth. . . They've left the horse and wagon behind.



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Reviews for chapter 7

Jennifer Alan - I love the nostalgia you create and how you can build upon it.

Melvin Seiden - Been to McSorley's - Love it!

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PG 33) Pachka cigarettes poster - Soviet Advertisement

PG 33) World War 1 poster - Be a trained nurse

PG 34) World War 2 poster - Memo for tomorrow. . .

PG 35) Fibrous asbestos pipe covering - newspaper ad

PG 35) A painting on the wall of an abandoned Soviet clinic @ http://uexplorer.wordpress.com/author/uexplorer/page/2/

PG 35) Gifts by Ilene Meyer

PG 36) McSorley's wonderful saloon by Joseph Mitchell (unchanged since 1854) http://www.mcsorleysnewyork.com/

PG 36) The Bones by Ciruelo Cabral

PG 36) The Cicero Stage makes a stop in North Syracuse by Richard Palmer