STORY TWO

GRAD SCHOOL, THE UNEXPECTED, AND DYCKMAN STREET, OR HAVOC REIGNS SUPREME

Deep in the heart of East New York, a part of Brooklyn, or just about a mile down from Pennsylvania Avenue in the general area where Murder, Incorporated operated, were some modest residential homes in reasonably quiet ethnic neighborhoods. It was on one of these streets, not terribly far from the New Lots elevator station, that Molly's mother lived with her as yet unmarried son. It was also the residence that we moved to right after our marriage. This gave us, as newlyweds, a breather, allowing me to make plans for attending graduate school, while at the same time completing my last semester at Brooklyn College. Naturally, it was also a great financial assist since apartments were expensive and I was still a student. I did have my part time job at the New York Public Library and thus was at least able to cover some of the small necessities of life; but "living in" with my mother-in-law sure saved the day for me initially. Molly too, was working at the Library and that also helped with the budget. It was not too long after we had joined Molly's family that I came down with a vicious virus which kept me confined to bed. It was really fierce, and I was ill prepared for it because I was rarely sick. This time however, I ran a high fever, lost all appetite, and was delirious from time to time. They called their family physician who came to the house since I was too far gone to visit his office, and he prescribed, what at the time was a brand new type of medication, aureomycin. It was very costly and completely wrecked our meager savings. I was laid up for almost three weeks and still do not know to this date whether it was the medication or my mother-in-law's chicken soup that saved the day. After it was all over, I had to burn the midnight oil for a month straight just to catch up with all my papers and assignments.

Well, I indicated we were novices before, but I do not think I mentioned the degree of innocence on behalf of both of us. Suffice it to say, that when we returned from our honeymoon, my wife was still a virgin and my knowledge of the most intimate parts of wedded bliss was still lacking some technical detail. Ignorance of this type may have been viewed as virtuous but in practical terms it was also disastrous. We found that out as one month after our marriage, Molly started to crave strange foods in the middle of the night, such as dry salty herring and other unfamiliar tidbits. Then shortly thereafter, she began having morning sickness. The subway ride to work was no help. Swaying and vibrating in fast moving trains that come to screeching stops was not terribly comforting for symptoms of morning sickness. After heaving up several times in very embarrassing ways, we decided Molly better resign and stay at home. She was not happy with that idea, figuring we needed her input to keep going. One day she tried to take a hot "mustard bath" while I was away at school and undo the damage. When I came home and was told about it, I became furious and lost my temper. Luckily this old wife's remedy did not work, so the experiment failed.

Meanwhile I had taken a battery of tests for graduate school and was informed, after some anxious weeks, that I was admitted to Columbia's School of Library Science for training as a librarian. Columbia's subway stop was located in uptown Manhattan, which meant that I spent a lot of time riding subways. I started the day early morning by taking the train from the New Lots Station that was the end stop in Brooklyn, all the way up to 175th Street in Manhattan; a long ride somewhere in the one and one-half hour range. After morning classes, I would catch a train down to 42nd Street to work in the Library. I would just have ten minutes to gulp down my lunch, so that I always carried a couple of Kaiser roll sandwiches in my pocket or notebook. After working for some four hours, I would hot tail it back to Columbia for some more classes. Then, that being complete, I would ride back to the Library on 42nd Street and work another three or four hours. Then it was back to the end stop in Brooklyn. I must have spent at least four hours a day or more just riding the subways, and that for six days a week. Sundays my total on the trains was cut to just about three hours. I got so used to catching the right trains, switching from the express platform to the local one, and back again, that I knew just which train would pull into the station at the exact time. I learned where to stand to be closest to the stairwell in order to be in and out first, where the train door would be on the opposite parallel track for switching into the express from the local, and numerous other finely tuned details of subway life. It seems that the thousands of visitors to the City are always amazed to see New Yorkers rushing, pushing and shoving, and acting like wild animals to get somewhere in a hurry but, as you can see from my meager example, there are often good reasons for it.

I was also an expert at sleeping on the subways to the point where, when I got on and found a seat, I was deeply asleep before the train even reached the next station. Through this technique I could sleep an hour at a time and I still do not know how my system knew, but I always woke up at the right station to get off; well almost always. There was one time when I must have really been out cold. That was the time I missed one of my classes because I landed up at 242nd Street, or Van Courtland Parkway, the end stop of the line in the Bronx; not a bad record though for all the years traveling the subways. There were also a few times that I was embarrassed while sleeping. One time the train lurched more than usual and I landed up in the lap of the lady sitting opposite from me. At another time, I must have been in more of a hurry than I normally was, and woke up to the fact that I had not zipped up my pants. I was red faced. If you travel the subways, you can always tell who the real pros are by one simple test. While most riders will hold on to hand guides, poles, or anything else they can grab, the experienced riders will just kind of stand there, providing there is enough room and naturally sway with the rhythm of the train, quite nonchalantly. They may even be reading a newspaper or magazine while doing so.

Time was whizzing by rather quickly now. The summer semester was over and the fall semester had started. Since I was on a full schedule, with studies and reports as well as the job and school, not to mention a little bit of married life in-between, I was going around circles. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have an hour or two of free time. I just could not imagine that kind of luxury. Molly was becoming big by now with the baby. By November, give or take a couple weeks, she was due to deliver. Her doctor believed in natural birth, and that proved to be a terrible ordeal when the time came. Some of Molly's friends gave her a "baby shower" and provided most of the initial items that are usually needed; of course, disposable diapers and plastic baby bottles were not heard of at the time. Then one late evening in early November, Molly was taken to the hospital for which pre-arrangements had been made. It was a false alarm, but one week later, the real emergency arose. As an afterthought, Molly should have had a cesarean section birth, but as indicated her doctor prevailed. After some thirty hours of labor, the doctor asked for a consultant, who quickly took charge. The obstetrician induced the final act of labor and with the normal tools of the trade, aided in pulling the baby out. Fortunately both mother and baby survived. The baby looked like the cartoon character, Denny Dimwit, with a cone shape pointed head, that took several months to reshape itself. Luckily for me, it was a birth in the old manner, where dads had no business anywhere near their wives; I was banished to a maternity waiting room for fathers. I am sure that if I had been allowed to be in the labor room with Molly, I would have panicked long ago and they would have had to admit me as a patient immediately. When it was all over my mother sighed a sigh of relief. It seems she had been counting the months and wanted to make sure it was an after the marriage baby and not a pre-marriage one.

Some months before the baby was due, we filled out an application for an apartment in a large, fairly new housing unit, located near Dyckman Street, close to 200 Street in uptown Manhattan. To our pleasant surprise, just about a month after the baby came, we were notified that a two bedroom apartment was available for us. We were thrilled. Finally we would really be on our own. Not that we were ungrateful for the hospitality extended us, but being on your own is just great. We loved the apartment. It was on the twelfth floor overlooking the East River. We could see the river traffic, and astride the river, the Eastside Highway, a multilane busy City artery. Across the river were the rail lines that the commuter trains and regular New York Central passenger and freight trains used. Looking up the river we could see the bridge and the bend in the river as it turned around the island of Manhattan. It was a sight to behold at anytime, but especially at night. On a clear night the lights of the traffic both on the road and the river, as well as from the trains across the river, plus all the city lights and large neon advertisements were just fantastic. We never tired of watching the goings on and it often put us in a very romantic mood. The apartment was furnished somewhat sparsely but at least it was ours. Molly was a great housekeeper and prided herself on the cleanliness of her quarters. She would put the baby in his carriage, and take the elevator down to the ground floor, and then "walk" the baby on the grounds of the apartment complex. There were several other young married women who did much the same thing and Molly quickly made a number of friends. We just scraped by, but we were happy. Close to the complex was a corner bakery. It was a Viennese bakery replete with all the good confections that one could expect. Of special note were their chocolate mountains filled with real whipped cream and their tortes. They also made an excellent version of Viennese coffee, that is, coffee with ice cream and whipped cream, and we stopped in from time to time to treat ourselves in lieu of eating out, which we rarely could afford.

So it went on for about a year until time came for me to graduate. Once again, I had gone to school around the clock and compressed my Masters degree into two summers and a year, rather than the normal two years, so that I could start with my professional career. It was the end of the summer session of 1951 and I was a graduate. Prior to completing my program, I had written to several employers about vacancies they had advertised. One of the letters was written just as a "wild card" in response to an ad from the Library of Hawaii. Neither Molly nor I had any real knowledge of Hawaii at the time, and we frivolously talked about the possibility of a real honeymoon, believing that our chances were next to nil of landing the job. We were wrong. The Library made an offer, and being young and ignorant of the facts I accepted. We planned our farewells, sold most of our meager belongings, arranged for inexpensive tickets, and left for what to us were, totally uncharted waters.

Well dear reader, you may not have been too relaxed with all this hectic activity and aimless chasing around the city's subway system. I can assure you, however that STORY THREE will quickly reverse the pace for you and let you peacefully sleep with the "Blue Pacific Waters" washing gently on the white sandy beaches of the tropical Isles.

©1990 Herbert Holzbauer

published @1997 edition S.p.N.LAUB

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