75: Kindness of Strangers

Brett

They could stay or they had to go. They were in or they were out.

Brett

Well, literally, it would be, you, you're out. You're gone. You're gone. You're OK, you can stay.

Brett

No, not at all. And no one argued with him.

Brett

Right. These are the last few people before he reaches me. The 50-ish woman in the business suit and thick glasses is summarily dismissed. The homey in the baggy shorts and Chicago Bulls jersey makes the cut. The young immigrant mother who seems not to grasp the import of this moment is given the OK.

Brett

Right. The bookish man in the maroon cardigan sweater with balding head and red face is cut loose with particular relish.

Brett

And I'm starting to feel a little nervous and aware of the fact--

Brett

It sounds so silly. We all like to think that we're evolved enough or mature enough. But when push comes to shove and a guy's going down the line rating, I found that you can't help but kind of hope that he gives you the thumbs up when your turn comes.

Brett

No, he's not. And he didn't even look like anyone I particularly wanted to hang with, as much as one can tell from someone's appearance.

Brett

No, no.

Brett

Right, right.

Brett

Exactly.

Brett

It was like, all right.

Brett

Sure, If you can't make this guy's cut, come on.

Brett

No, they haven't.

Joel Kostman

It's a little past midnight and I'd just returned home from dropping my girlfriend Deborah off at the airport. Late at night is the only time of day I like the way my block looks. There are no panhandlers. The parking lots are all empty. And the constant noise you hear in the daytime from the exiting Lincoln Tunnel traffic is minimized. It almost looks like a real street, a place where people live.

Remarkably, I find a parking space right in front of my building. I sit in the car with the motor running listening to the radio and thinking about Deborah. We live together. This morning, I thought we were in love. Tonight, I'm not sure if I'm ever going to see her again. The DJ plays a Freddie and the Dreamers tune, "I'm Telling You Now."

Suddenly I hear someone across the street yell something. I look up and a young woman is standing next to a red sports car, her head resting on the roof. "Damn, damn, damn," she moans, pounding an alternate fist down with each word. She steps back, her hands on her hips, and looks around as if for a lost child. She has straight blond hair which hangs down to her shoulders. She's wearing tight blue jeans, a yellow shirt unbuttoned down to her cleavage, and black spike heels. She's got on bright red lipstick and gold interlocking circles for earrings. They jangle when she turns her head.

"Oh damn," she says again, and throws her bag at the car. It's a Porsche. I shut off my engine and get out. I don't want to scare her so I call from across the street.

"Excuse me, you need some help?" She's bending down on the sidewalk, picking up some things that fell out of her bag. She looks up and for a second I think she's going to scream. Then she smiles.

"I locked my [BLEEP] keys in the car," she says as she stands up. "I can't believe I did this." Her hands do a kind of Betty Boop thing. I decide that she's Jersey, here for a concert at the Garden. She just has that Jersey feel.

"You're in luck," I say, still from across the street.

She purses her lips and nods. "Why, you going to take me out for a drink until the tow truck gets here?" She laughs but starts coughing in the middle. I go to my trunk and remove my car lockout stuff. A pretty, stranded Jersey girl with a sense of humor no less, I say to myself. There's something in her face that reminds me of a young Jessica Lange.

I cross the street with my slim jim in one hand. It's a thin, silvery piece of metal about two feet long with some notches cut out at the bottom used to open car doors. I carry it at my side like a sword, like a knight would. In my other hand I grasp my tool kit. In my shirt pocket is the little leather case that contains my picks, which I bring just in case I run into any trouble. I step up on the sidewalk next to her. "I'm a locksmith," I announce. I love these moments when I get to play the hero.

She has a loopy smile on her face which stays there even as her expression slowly changes. I can smell the alcohol on her breath. She looks at the slim jim and then back at my face. "No [BLEEP]," she says. "Well, I guess it's my lucky day." She lays a hand on my shoulder like we're old pals. She squeezes and then leans on me a little. Her head floats around in front of my face. "You open it up and the drinks are on me," she says in a kind of half growl.

I peer into the car window and see the keys dangling from the ignition. There are a couple of empty beer bottles on the floor on the passenger side. I look back at the woman. She's got a cigarette going now. At that moment, from behind us, we hear a long, clear Tarzan call. It's a perfect imitation, lasting about 10 seconds, complete with the jungle yodels in the middle. "What the hell was that," the woman asks.

She steps out toward the street and leans her head way back. She looks up at the parking structure that's a block north on 31st Street. I get a real good look at her then. "That's Tarzan," I say.

She tilts her head to the side, half closes her right eye, and raises her left eyebrow. "Friend of yours?" she asks.

"I think he works in the parking structure," I say.

"Oh," she says, with a look on her face that says that explains everything. She puts her hands behind her and leans back. I momentarily think about Deborah. The woman in front of me couldn't be more different in appearance. She's as tall as I am with an accent out of a Stallone movie. She looks like a wild, fun-loving gal, good working-class stock. I wonder what she's like when she's sober.

"So you going to do your thing, or what?" the woman asks. I hold up my slim jim. "Action," she says. I dip my slim jim into the car door, feeling around. I try different angles, different depths. Nothing happens. she hops off the hood of the car and stands next to me. "No luck?" she asks.

"Not yet."

It's a hot night. She takes a tissue from her bag and says, "here, you're sweating buckets." I wipe my forehead. The tissue smells like perfume. She removes another one and dabs at her neck and chest. She flaps her hand in front of her face like a fan. "I've got air conditioning in there once you get it open," she says.

"I'll have it open in a minute," I say. I start thinking about her behind the wheel of the car and where we'll go. She rummages around in the bag again and produces a pack of cigarettes. She lights one up, takes a drag, and blows the smoke up toward the sky. I haven't smoked in 10 years, but it still resonates for me, how it feels, how sexy it looks, which is why I think people do it. She offers me one. "No thanks," I say.

"Sorry I don't have anything stronger." She smiles. I smile back.

She strikes a pose that smokers do, right arm bent at the elbow, forearm across the body. The left elbow rests on the right wrist and the forearm goes straight up, the fingers at the lips. I pull the slim jim out. "Harder than you thought, huh?" She says.

"Some foreign cars are tough," I say.

"Can I try?"

"You want to try?"

"Yeah. Who knows? Maybe it'll be like beginners luck. It looks like fun."

I don't know why, but I say, "sure." I slide the slim jim through the space between the window and the rubber stripping. She takes the end of it.

"Like this?" she asks, moving it back and forth like a slot machine handle.

"No," I say. "Actually, you kind of go like this." I take her hand, move it up and down slowly, bobbing the end of the tool slightly from side to side. We're doing a kind of slim jim tango, dipping in and out and up and down. The car door won't open, but she doesn't even seem perturbed. It's like we're playing a game. "I'm going to try to pick it," I say.

"Can I still do this?" she asks.

"Sure. I'll work on the other door." As I step away, we suddenly hear Tarzan again. It's louder this time. He must be on a lower floor. It's a particularly beautiful call, and he really trails out the last note.

The woman bends over double and slaps her thighs in rapid fashion. "I love that," she cries. "That is just fabulous."

"Local color," I say. I take my can of WD-40 and lubricate the cylinder.

"That guy should be on TV, or something." I squat by the other side of the car. I insert the tension bar in the cylinder and hold it down with my thumb. And then I work the rake through several times.

After a couple of minutes, I'm starting to get frustrated. I say, "I'll be right back. I'm going to get something else." I run to my car and remove the metal doweling I bought on Canal Street for this very situation. It's long and sturdy but pliable. I bring it back across the street. "Here," I say, "you hold this." She lays the slim jim down on the sidewalk. I insert a large screwdriver between the door and the body of the car. "Just put a little pressure on it. Like this," I say as I push back. "That'll give me room to maneuver."

She stands behind me and pushes back on the screwdriver. I bend the end of the dowel into an L and slide it in. I push it toward the button which is in an impossible spot on the door panel, just behind the handle. I'm thinking, this car really is a pain in the ass. I wiggle my end of the dowel and poke at the area of the button, but I keep missing. "How does that button work?" I ask. "Do you push it forward, or in, or what?"

"Gee," she says. "I don't know. Let me think." She bobs her head slowly side to side and finally says, "in, I think. I think." I keep poking at the button. Once I hit it square on and let out a whoop. But when I try the door it doesn't open.

"Damn," I yell and slam my fist down on top of the Porsche.

"Hey," she says, "come on. We'll get it." She puts her hand on my arm. "You know, you're really a sweet guy for helping me out." She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek.

When Deborah said goodbye to me at the airport, she said, "maybe you and I should take the next few days to reevaluate." Then she put her hand on my upper arm and kissed me on the cheek.

"Let's try it again," the woman says. "Listen," I say, "I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. I usually don't have this much trouble."

"It's OK," she says. "I know we're going to get it this time." She punches the air like a cheerleader.

We try again. I twist the dowel around to get it in just the right position and then push it forward with my hand so it will come smashing into the button. The door doesn't open. I do it again and again. As my body bumps into the woman's and rubs up against her, I get more and more crazy. I can feel my hero status evaporating. Finally, after about 15 minutes, she says, "you know, I think if I push this way with the screwdriver, it'll make more room. I think it'll be a lot easier for you."

Before I can stop her, she leans against the car and pushes. There's a loud crack. The window shatters into pieces which fall on the sidewalk at our feet. I look at her face. Her mouth is wide open, her shoulders raised in embarrassment. Then, suddenly, she opens the door, brushes the glass off the seat with her bag and gets in. "Well, I got to go," she says. She starts the car. "I don't know how to thank you." She speeds off toward Eighth Avenue. "Goodbye," she calls out.

I am stunned by the swiftness of her departure. As I watch her drive off, her hand waving out the window, Tarzan gives his grand finale. His voice is so strong that it sounds like he's right behind me. His call begins with one beautiful, long, sustained note. He holds it longer than I have ever heard before. Then he leaps into a spectacular trill which ends with another gorgeous full note and follows this with a second trill, which trails off into a final, eerie, haunting tone.

I turn to face the parking structure. I'm standing in the middle of a pile of my discarded tools and broken glass. I lean my head way back, looking up at the sky. I cup my hands around my mouth, take the deepest possible breath, and yell at the top of my lungs, "shut the hell up!"

Jack Geiger

Native Son, Orson Welles' Mercury Theatre Production of the Richard Wright novel which starred a black actor named Canada Lee. And I was very moved by that. And with the brashness of a 14-year-old, I went backstage afterwards and found Canada Lee and hung around and talked with him a while. And I liked that so much that I did that three or four more times.

Jack Geiger

Well, we started out talking about the play and Richard Wright and the main character, Bigger Thomas, and race relations in the United States. And pretty soon we got around to-- by the second or third conversation at least-- what was going on in my life and what I wanted to do and my conflicts and so on. He learned a lot more about me than I did about him, I think, at that point in those conversations.

And then one day when the conflict at home just a lot tougher, I waited until a Sunday when I knew there was no performance of Native Son. And my folks were out, and I packed a bag, and I took a subway up to the top of Sugar Hill in Harlem, 555 Edgecombe Avenue, where I knew that Canada had a penthouse. And I went up and rang the doorbell. And he was home and opened the door. And I said, Lee, the stuff at home is just getting too much and I thought maybe I could stay here for a while. Cold, just like that. And he kind of looked around and pointed to a couch in the living room and said, well, I guess you could sleep over there.

After I had gone to sleep that evening, I later learned, he called my folks and said, look, I'll send him back in the morning. But why don't you let him stay here, because I'm not sure where he's going to land the next time. And my parents must have been so exhausted by all of this that they agreed, at least tentatively. And that was the beginning of a whole year that I really lived there and had one of the great educational experiences of my life.

Through that apartment, over that year that I remember, came the kind of the cream of the Harlem theatrical, sporting, civil rights, political, and intellectual world. And I had the chance to sit around evening after evening, many weekends, listening to Langston Hughes, William Saroyan, Adam Clayton Powell, Billy Strayhorn, Duke Ellington's arranger, Richard Wright, who came back once from exile and stopped in. And what I remember most is listening to people, listening to the conversations about World War II and race and democracy, segregation in the armed forces, what was happening in the South, what was happening in New York City.

Jack Geiger

Well, I think they were exhausted. We had had so much struggle. A little later, I remember, further on, when we were talking to each other again, Lee was giving a party and invited my parents, who, with great trepidation, came up to Harlem at night-- I don't think they had ever done that before-- and came to this party. And Canada, I remember, turned to my mother and said, hey, I'm a bachelor. Do you think you could help us out in the kitchen? It was a big party. And my mother said, sure.

The next day, I talked to my mother on the phone and she said she had had the most wonderful time, had spent a couple of hours in the kitchen with this wonderful man, and they'd had all this conversation. And I said, who was it? She said, well, she didn't know. She'd never gotten the name. And I said, well, describe him. And she discovered that she had spent two hours chatting with Langston Hughes and was mortified that she had never realized it.

Jack Geiger

You had to have met Langston Hughes to know. He was as comfortable as an old shoe. And I'm sure they talked about cooking. And I'm sure they talked about whatever else my mother wanted to talk about. And she never quite got over it and still recalled it.

During that year, he was kind of an informal, surrogate father. And I was in that stage where I wasn't going to take anything from the parents I was fighting with. So he staked me to a good bit of my first year at college when I found a place that would finally let me in. And--

Jack Geiger

Well, he loaned me the money.

Jack Geiger

Yeah. It wasn't until a little later that I figured out why, unconsciously maybe, I had made the choice that I did. It turned out, although I didn't know it at the time, that Canada Lee himself had grown up in a pretty strict, middle-class West Indian family. And he had, he told me, the same kind of dissatisfactions and mixed-up feelings that I'd had about his relationship with his family, what he wanted to do. And he ran away. And I think that experience may have had something to do with his kindness in taking this strange kid in and making a sort of second home for him.

The thing I've thought about-- a lot, without ever really finding an answer-- is what kind of clues did I have that said hey, this is a guy that I can approach in this way, a scrawny kid with a suitcase on a Sunday night, and have some kind of shot at getting taken in? I was either very insightful or very lucky. And I think it was mostly luck.

Jack Geiger

I think there must've clues, just in the fact that here was a Broadway star who was hanging around backstage talking with a kid about life and about his troubles. That's a signal that I don't think anybody could have missed.

Jack Geiger

And I said, sure. And I loaned it to him, and I came back from the next trip, and he paid me back. And it took me a while, in retrospect, to figure out that he didn't need the $1,000. He was just changing the nature of the relationship between us and saying, hey, now you're grown up. Now you're an adult. And I'm not your dad anymore. We're partners. I can borrow money from you just the way you borrowed money from me.

Jack Geiger

Yeah.

Jack Geiger

It's a relationship, very obviously, that has stayed with me ever since. Most of my life and work has, in one way or another, involved civil rights and human rights. It must be one of the reasons why I became a physician, of wanting to look out for people who were in trouble.

Jack Geiger

You know, what occurs to me now is something I learned in the Harlem community and in a lot of other work. There was a lot more experience in the black community of extended families. And I don't think, in that context, from that side of the divide, it felt like such a big deal.

Jack Geiger

I think so. And maybe still.

Starlee Kine

She would come and tell me not to make noise in the apartment. And she was like, I wear slippers at night, so you should be wearing slippers too.

Starlee Kine

No, she would tell me downstairs in the hall. I'd see her in passing. And she was actually really calm about it. And she looked like a helpless old woman back then. And I'd try to be quieter because of it. And I think I even helped her carry her groceries up the stairs once. I think I actually did do that.

Starlee Kine

She would occasionally sit in the hallway and talk to people about us. But there would not be anyone out there to talk to. She would just make up conversation and gossip about us. But we'd open the door and she'd be like, they all ran upstairs really quick. And she wasn't talking to anyone about us. Just so we'd know that she didn't like us.

Starlee Kine

Just that we were loud, bad kids. Just that we were loud and unresponsible. And she didn't believe any of us ever went to school. She refused to believe that. I think she didn't like that we were young.

Starlee Kine

Cigarette butts and crumpled pieces of paper and orange juice cartons. Stuff like that. And it started off really small and it just got huge. And it just became so much trash in the hallway. And people smoke here, so it looked like we were doing it. And also, the type of trash she picked-- she would try to go out of her way to find kid trash, like Hostess Donut wrappers and candy bar things, and just the most creative garbage you've ever seen. And so people at first thought we were doing it. And they would come and talk to us and be like, don't put the trash. I'm like, I'm not putting the trash.

Starlee Kine

Jake wrote a note saying, please don't put trash in the hallway and put it outside in our hallway. We have a little square hallway. And he just taped it on the wall. And so then we hear her come out and we look through the key hole. And we see that she's put a sign up. And we come out there and it says, well then please don't sell drugs. And that's the first time we'd ever heard of it. We were just like, whoa. It was so out of the blue. We couldn't believe it.

Starlee Kine

See, she puts number three, selling drugs, business as usual. On Passover, she put, shame selling drugs on Passover. Let's see, Kine and Bronstein, drug dealers selling your way to the jailhouse. Kine and Bronstein, drug dealers selling illegal drugs here, like parasites.

Starlee Kine

I asked her to come into the apartment. I'm like, come in the apartment, look anywhere you want. Honestly, we'll go to the cops together. I don't mind that at all.

Starlee Kine

Now it's over there, though. See? It moves.

Starlee Kine

It's just to get our attention, just to remind us that even when she's not putting the signs up that the she's aware of our illegal activities.

[TAPPING]

Starlee Kine

We watched I, Claudius on PBS and it was three hours. From the first credit to the last credit, it was continuous tapping the entire time. She just sat in her door and banged her cane for the entire time. And she'll do it. She does not get tired. And that's what she does with her day. Instead of eating, she just bangs her cane.

Starlee Kine

It is sad. I know it's sad. It's hard, though. Because it's hard to know what the right thing to do is and to be confronted by such meanness. Sometimes you'll just be coming home, and you'll be like, god, this woman is the saddest woman in the world. You'll pass by her door and get feelings of pity and affection. And then she'll open it and she'll yell at you. And you're just like, man. She makes it so hard to do the right-- to just be a good person about it.

Starlee Kine

There would be times when I wanted to catch her in the act so badly, because I never caught-- she's so quick. And you could never catch her putting the signs up. I wanted to just open it so badly that I just wouldn't leave for an hour. I'd be like, no, you guys go ahead to the movie. I'm just going to stay here and just wait by the door for a little longer. And it was hard.

Starlee Kine

Right. Well, that's what it was. It was me lying in wait of her lying in wait for me. Absolutely. Yeah, the bond was strong.

Starlee Kine

If someone had gotten to her first-- if you were writing a history of the East Village or writing the history of this building, and then someone just interviewed her, it would go down that this heroic old lady tried to get these drug dealers out. She'd be the martyr, or whatever. And I guess that could become fact then. I told you, it almost is fact sometimes. I'm questioning myself sometimes about it. I used to.

Starlee Kine

No, but just am I right? Am I doing something wrong? Is there something wrong I'm doing like that? Is she a little bit right? Not that I'm a drug dealer, but am I--

Starlee Kine

Yeah, bad neighbor, bad person. Am I abusing her?

Starlee Kine

I've been having these dreams-- very, very clear dreams, like long, epic dreams-- where she'd come over, and we've chatted on the bed, and we've been giggling in the dreams. And I've had dreams where we've come to terms with a lot of things. I've explained it. Like, this summer. Before, they used to be-- they were only violent. I was at her funeral. I was a little sad at that point. I was visiting her in jail. But this time, I've had these friendship dreams all summer long.

And they're really realistic. She acts like herself and I say the thing I'm supposed to. I can't figure out what I'm supposed to say when I'm awake. And I say it. And then all of a sudden, really, logic comes into her eyes. And she has sat down on my bed, and we've started to giggle and just talk about things and make jokes to each other.

Starlee Kine

Whatever I'm supposed to be saying, whatever I could possibly say to her in real life to make her see the light, you know.

Starlee Kine

I don't know. I'd probably wait a couple days and I'd see-- I don't know. I can't imagine they would stop, though.

Starlee Kine

I talked to her yesterday. She called me a pathological liar.

[MUSIC - "LOVE TO ANNOY" BY JULIE DOIRON]

Nick Drakides

[SINGING "YOUNG AT HEART"]

Nick Drakides

[SINGING "THE LADY IS A TRAMP"] Come over here, Susan!

Nick Drakides

What happened was, I was coming home-- I'll tell you exactly what happened. I was coming home that Friday evening around 9:00 and I forgot her name. And I'm walking down Fourth Street from Second Avenue. And I'm like, oh, there she is tapping, and I don't want to do this. I'm tired. I'm like [SIGH]. And then I had to reach for her name in my little-- what's this thing-- pocket day timer. And I'm like, OK, it's Laraine.

Then I walk down the street, and I say, hi, Laraine, how are you? And she goes, oh come on out Nick and join me, blah, blah, blah. And I think she assumed I'll bring out some music. That was it. I don't think she was expecting a suit and microphone stand and the PA, the CDs, the cassettes, the whole number.

Thanks to Laraine Goodman. This is the brains behind this wonderful event here. Say good evening, Laraine.

Laraine Goodman

Good evening, Laraine.

Nick Drakides

[SINGING "I'VE GOT THE WORLD ON A STRING"]

Nick Drakides

Basically, what I'm doing right now, I have been into since I was a kid, since I was 10 years old.

Nick Drakides

--anytime he moves his-- that's Brendan, our lovely neighbor here. Lucky me-- how ya doin' Richie-- can't you see I'm in love?

Nick Drakides

[SINGING "WITCHCRAFT"] Ooh! I got a crush on you too, baby. Ooh, you're a fine witch!

Nick Drakides

The first week they would circle around the block, speak through their megaphone. They would say, people, please don't block the streets. Please keep the streets clear. And that was it. That was the first week. The second week they requested "Summer Wind."

Nick Drakides

Yes, through the megaphone as they were passing. The third week, the police came and they stopped their car, held up traffic, and they said, OK, "Summer Wind." They wanted to hear "Summer Wind." So I finished "Night and Day." I put "Summer Wind" on. And I went up on the steps. They manipulated their lights on the top and threw a white spotlight on me. And I started singing "Summer Wind." The crowd went crazy. They went nuts. And they were really into it. it's that whole New York, macho Italian, police, Irish, street-- it is, man. And evidently, what I'm doing, they connect with that.

[SINGING "SUMMER WIND"]

Nick Drakides

There's a guy who lives next door. And he embraced me. He hugged me, this old Chinese guy, man, with a hearing aid. I'm like, I touched this guy. And I don't how I did it, but I did it.

Joel Kostman

Move it up and down slowly, bobbing the end of the tool slightly from side to side.