One morning, the door number had been polished and replaced, though I heard no one working in the hall. Perhaps someone else passed this way on the stairs,
leaving a crooked calling card.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Door Plate
One morning, the door number had been polished and replaced, though I heard no one working in the hall. Perhaps someone else passed this way on the stairs,leaving a crooked calling card.
What Remains
I took some photographs this afternoon of the night watchman's route. He would have walked down the cast iron staircase
(underneath it looks like this)
brushing the top of the banister in the half-darkness.
Perhaps he would have turned up the gas jet that sat in this fixture
and clocked in at the box on the landing.
When I took a picture of where the box had been, I caught this instead:
I checked the flash. I focused and re-focused, zoomed in and out.
Is someone still looking after us in the dark?
(underneath it looks like this)
brushing the top of the banister in the half-darkness.Perhaps he would have turned up the gas jet that sat in this fixture
When I took a picture of where the box had been, I caught this instead:
I checked the flash. I focused and re-focused, zoomed in and out.Is someone still looking after us in the dark?
What Has Vanished
Our building is 100 years old this year. Much has remained the same but the night watchman is gone.
When I moved here in 1978, his ghost was still on duty. On our landing was the call box where he checked in. The heavy brass key turned and clunked as he logged his time. Next he turned off the gas jet on the second floor landing. He straightened the air raid shelter sign when he remembered. He walked down to the first floor, then the basement, making sure everything was secure.
Sometime in the mid 1980s, the ghost was gone. The gas jet was clipped off and capped. The call box was removed, and the banister shaved clean. The chain that held the key was gone. Some job security!
When I moved here in 1978, his ghost was still on duty. On our landing was the call box where he checked in. The heavy brass key turned and clunked as he logged his time. Next he turned off the gas jet on the second floor landing. He straightened the air raid shelter sign when he remembered. He walked down to the first floor, then the basement, making sure everything was secure.
Sometime in the mid 1980s, the ghost was gone. The gas jet was clipped off and capped. The call box was removed, and the banister shaved clean. The chain that held the key was gone. Some job security!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Pale Night
At 8 p.m., the snow started falling again. By 10 p.m., it was thick and heavy, coating the skylights on the roof below. At 1 a.m., I fell asleep, heavy and tired, and happy that I wouldn't wake up until it was light again.
At 2 a.m., the girl stormed into the apartment above us, slammed the heavy metal door. Screamed at the top of her lungs: "I can't believe you would do this to me! Who do you think you are!" No one answered back. She kept it up, louder and longer. I opened the door to our apartment, wondering if anyone else could hear her in the hall. The sound was muted, thanks to the brick and cement walls of our 1911 building.
Back and forth, clicking her heels she went, faster and louder. Into the bathroom -- more screaming. No carpets up there. Every now and then, I heard a low murmur from the man who is the tenant. No words, just a low sound. On she went until about 4:30. Then a metallic, loud, hard thud against the floor, just above our bed. Waiting for the next salvo. Quiet.
Around 10 a.m., the floor boards creaked. I was convinced there would be drops of blood seeping through the ceiling -- but, no, of course not. Not a sound all day. Not a sound now, 6 p.m. Tonight I have to get some sleep.
At 2 a.m., the girl stormed into the apartment above us, slammed the heavy metal door. Screamed at the top of her lungs: "I can't believe you would do this to me! Who do you think you are!" No one answered back. She kept it up, louder and longer. I opened the door to our apartment, wondering if anyone else could hear her in the hall. The sound was muted, thanks to the brick and cement walls of our 1911 building.
Back and forth, clicking her heels she went, faster and louder. Into the bathroom -- more screaming. No carpets up there. Every now and then, I heard a low murmur from the man who is the tenant. No words, just a low sound. On she went until about 4:30. Then a metallic, loud, hard thud against the floor, just above our bed. Waiting for the next salvo. Quiet.
Around 10 a.m., the floor boards creaked. I was convinced there would be drops of blood seeping through the ceiling -- but, no, of course not. Not a sound all day. Not a sound now, 6 p.m. Tonight I have to get some sleep.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Darker than the Dark
As we approach the new year, I wonder where this ghost will ring in 2011.
Dark of winter, no lights on yet. The librarian wanders in, coffee in hand, and places his backpack on the wide wooden bench. Still early, very early -- had to leave home at 5:30 because of the storm clean up. No one else in yet and he is happy. Enough time to drink that nice hot coffee. He walks up to the circulation desk, sipping carefully, turning on the computer. The blue light glows; early morning creeps in.
Thinking about winter, cold, life, the librarian turns his head to catch a ray of sunlight. It bounces off against the back wall, near the globe, and in the weak white beam he sees a shape darker than the shadows in the unlit room, darker than the back wall. The shape moves toward the spiral staircase, pauses, continues. An optical illusion, says the librarian to himself, but looks again. The shape remains, deciding where to go.
It flutters past the portrait of Mrs. Van Dam Schuyler Stuyvesant. It stops near an old leather elephant perched on a card catalogue. It slides up the trunk and sits on the back. Hovering, hovering, now fading, now brightening, now darker in the shadows. Quietly, the librarian takes a step toward the back wall. The shape freezes. The elephant waits. A long, soft whoosh floats through the room, circling the walls, leaving through the glazed window. A child cries. The sun is up. The old elephant waits.
Dark of winter, no lights on yet. The librarian wanders in, coffee in hand, and places his backpack on the wide wooden bench. Still early, very early -- had to leave home at 5:30 because of the storm clean up. No one else in yet and he is happy. Enough time to drink that nice hot coffee. He walks up to the circulation desk, sipping carefully, turning on the computer. The blue light glows; early morning creeps in.
Thinking about winter, cold, life, the librarian turns his head to catch a ray of sunlight. It bounces off against the back wall, near the globe, and in the weak white beam he sees a shape darker than the shadows in the unlit room, darker than the back wall. The shape moves toward the spiral staircase, pauses, continues. An optical illusion, says the librarian to himself, but looks again. The shape remains, deciding where to go.
It flutters past the portrait of Mrs. Van Dam Schuyler Stuyvesant. It stops near an old leather elephant perched on a card catalogue. It slides up the trunk and sits on the back. Hovering, hovering, now fading, now brightening, now darker in the shadows. Quietly, the librarian takes a step toward the back wall. The shape freezes. The elephant waits. A long, soft whoosh floats through the room, circling the walls, leaving through the glazed window. A child cries. The sun is up. The old elephant waits.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tobacco - the end of the story
(continued from September 7, 2009; part 1 published August 30, 2009)
Ellen continues ...
“There’s a man following me … he must have followed me all the way from Gramercy Park. He’s there, by the subway, in the raincoat … oh, no, no, no, he’s gone now. He’s gone. He must be down in the subway.”
“Miss, take a cab home tonight. We’ve had some problems lately with a stalker around that Old Town Bar. We’ve tried to catch him six or seven times this week alone! Can you describe the guy that was following you?
The policeman called in Ellen’s description. “No, lady, our guy has red hair,” the cop said, but there’s always copycats. Maybe this guy has a record. Won’t know unless you come to the precinct and look at some pictures tomorrow.”
“I could, yes. But I’ve got to get home tonight, get some sleep.”
“Miss, take a cab. Here’s one now. Take it. Come down to the 23rd Street station tomorrow morning, before work. Ask for Sergeant Morris. I’ll tell him you’re coming. It won’t take long.”
Ellen agreed and dozed on the short ride home. The ghost was waiting under the street lamp, across from her building. Once he was sure she was safe inside, he made his way back up to the Old Town Bar for a smoke and a nightcap.
Ellen continues ...
“There’s a man following me … he must have followed me all the way from Gramercy Park. He’s there, by the subway, in the raincoat … oh, no, no, no, he’s gone now. He’s gone. He must be down in the subway.”
“Miss, take a cab home tonight. We’ve had some problems lately with a stalker around that Old Town Bar. We’ve tried to catch him six or seven times this week alone! Can you describe the guy that was following you?
The policeman called in Ellen’s description. “No, lady, our guy has red hair,” the cop said, but there’s always copycats. Maybe this guy has a record. Won’t know unless you come to the precinct and look at some pictures tomorrow.”
“I could, yes. But I’ve got to get home tonight, get some sleep.”
“Miss, take a cab. Here’s one now. Take it. Come down to the 23rd Street station tomorrow morning, before work. Ask for Sergeant Morris. I’ll tell him you’re coming. It won’t take long.”
Ellen agreed and dozed on the short ride home. The ghost was waiting under the street lamp, across from her building. Once he was sure she was safe inside, he made his way back up to the Old Town Bar for a smoke and a nightcap.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Serendipity
I was at the library of the New-York Historical Society yesterday, talking to Joseph Ditta, one of their erudite (and always pleasant) librarians. We were speculating on the forces behind serendipity: why, for example, when you're looking for one thing do you sometimes find another that has been eluding you for weeks, months, even years? Is it the fault of ghosts in the stacks? the books? the research gods? Does it happen only in libraries? And why do ghosts take their sweet time revealing this vital information?
Ghosts have no timetable, no agenda -- although one or two surely must have an axe to grind. In one of the opening scenes in the classic "Ghostbusters," an ancient librarian floats through the reading room of the 42nd Street Library, shushing anyone she sees. Clearly, this was a woman out to spoil everyone's joy!
But I digress. Now that the stained glass windows have been removed from the N-YHS Library (for cleaning and restoration), I wonder what will fill their space for the next year? I'll bet the ghosts of the figures in the windows hang out having coffee, maybe a beer. What happens if you flip on the lights and see the tip-tapping toe of a boot, a shank of hair, a bit of satin from a dress? Can you grab it? conserve it? sell it on Ebay?
I'd love to be the guard that opens up in the morning. Think of the cacophony: the people from the Dutch window are trying to communicate with the French Huguenots from the other window and the French are sighing about how boring it all is! Meanwhile, the Dutch are trying to strike a deal but the French can't sign it because they don't have enough stamps and ink and all the bureaucrats are away, trying to figure out how to pay for the conservation. Completely exhausted, they drop into chairs at a spacious tables and try to figure out who will make the tea and why isn't there enough cheese to go around? And how do we keep the English out -- the Dutch ask. To which the French reply, ah, trop tard, trop tard!
Life is tough in the Library.
Ghosts have no timetable, no agenda -- although one or two surely must have an axe to grind. In one of the opening scenes in the classic "Ghostbusters," an ancient librarian floats through the reading room of the 42nd Street Library, shushing anyone she sees. Clearly, this was a woman out to spoil everyone's joy!
But I digress. Now that the stained glass windows have been removed from the N-YHS Library (for cleaning and restoration), I wonder what will fill their space for the next year? I'll bet the ghosts of the figures in the windows hang out having coffee, maybe a beer. What happens if you flip on the lights and see the tip-tapping toe of a boot, a shank of hair, a bit of satin from a dress? Can you grab it? conserve it? sell it on Ebay?
I'd love to be the guard that opens up in the morning. Think of the cacophony: the people from the Dutch window are trying to communicate with the French Huguenots from the other window and the French are sighing about how boring it all is! Meanwhile, the Dutch are trying to strike a deal but the French can't sign it because they don't have enough stamps and ink and all the bureaucrats are away, trying to figure out how to pay for the conservation. Completely exhausted, they drop into chairs at a spacious tables and try to figure out who will make the tea and why isn't there enough cheese to go around? And how do we keep the English out -- the Dutch ask. To which the French reply, ah, trop tard, trop tard!
Life is tough in the Library.
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