TIME: Almanac 1990s

home *** CD-ROM | disk | FTP | other *** search

/ TIME: Almanac 1990s / Time_Almanac_1990s_SoftKey_1994.iso / time / 091790 / 0917107.000 < prev next >

Wrap

Text File | 1994-03-25 | 11KB | 207 lines

<text id=90TT2449> <title> Sep. 17, 1990: What Makes New Yorkers Tick </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990 Sep. 17, 1990 The Rotting Of The Big Apple </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> NATION, Page 49 COVER STORIES What Makes New Yorkers Tick </hdr> <body> In America's toughest city, even Mother Teresa tries to get a little edge By Calvin Trillin [Calvin Trillin has been a "resident out-of-towner" in Manhattan for nearly 30 years, an experience that he says is unrelated to the title of his forthcoming book, Enough's Enough (and Other Rules of Life).] In the first place, we have more weird-looking people in New York City than can be found in any other American city. Also, more rich people. We have so many rich people that I once came to the conclusion that other cities were sending us the rich people they wanted to get rid of ("Listen, if Frank down at the bank doesn't quit talking about how much his Jaguar costs, we're just going to have to put him in the next shipment to New York"). Some of the weird-looking people and some of the rich people are the same people. Why would a rich person want to look weird? As we New Yorkers like to say, Go know. When I moved to New York, back in 1961, I remember saying that 90% of the people walking along the street in Manhattan would be interviewed in any other town, and the other 10% would be arrested. It's got a lot weirder since then. Of course, it's got weirder everywhere since then. But someone in a silly getup in Houston or Cleveland or Denver has to be aware that everyone is looking at him. If a 300-lb. man costumed as Eleanor of Aquitaine walks onto a crosstown bus in New York carrying both an attache case and a rib roast, the other passengers might glance up for a second, but then they'd go back to their tabloids. If you asked the driver why he didn't seem to be registering such a sight, he'd say, "Hey, whadaya--kidding? I seen a million guys like that. You think I'm some kinda farmer or something?" So if you're making a list of how New Yorkers differ from other Americans--even other city dwellers--write "funny looking" near the top. Also write "jaded" or maybe "blase": New Yorkers have seen a million guys like that no matter what the guy is like. We've seen everything. We've seen everybody. We are not impressed. The common response of New Yorkers to the presence of the President in their city is not excitement but irritation. His motorcade is going to tie up traffic. He may think he's in town to address the United Nations or raise money at one of those fat-cat banquets at the Waldorf, but as far as New Yorkers are concerned, he is there to cause them aggravation. And why, as a matter of fact, is the United Nations in New York? Also to cause aggravation, this time by taking up a lot of curb space with diplomatic-plates-only parking zones. In the minds of true New Yorkers, an awful lot that happens in the world happens to cause them aggravation. In fact, "aggravation," in that particular usage, is basically a New York word. I know there are people who think it's a Yiddish word--nobody thinks it's an English word--but a Yiddish word and a New York word are the same thing. It's true that you can detect an Italian bounce to some New York phrases, and it's true that white students at expensive Manhattan private schools are as likely as Harlem teenagers to shout "Yo!" when they come across a friend, but I think the basic structure and inflection of the language New Yorkers speak owe their greatest debt to Yiddish. The only purely New York word I can think of--cockamamie--sounds Yiddish, even thought it isn't. It means ridiculous or harebrained and is commonly used in such phrases as "another one of the mayor's cockamamie schemes." A scheme thus classified was launched some years ago by the then mayor, Edward Koch, who had come back from China smitten with the idea of bicycle transportation. He had protective strips of concrete installed to create a bicycle lane up Sixth Avenue. As someone who schlepps around (as we say here) on an old Raleigh three-speed, I was pathetically grateful for the bike lane myself; I suppose that shows that no matter how long I live in New York, I am, at heart, an out-of-towner. The cabdrivers, of course, hated it ("He likes China so much, he shoulda stood in China"). Some storekeepers hated it. But who complained most bitterly about the bike lanes? The bicyclers. The true New York bicyclers complained that the bike lane was full of pedestrians and garment-center pushcarts and people who schlepped around on Raleigh three-speeds. And slush. "It's October," I said to the bicycler who made that complaint; "there's no slush in October." "When there's slush," he said, "the bike lane will have slush." The bike-lane episode reminds me that you'd better put "contentious" near the top of that list, right under "funny looking." (Not just "funny looking," come to think of it, but also "funny": New York is the only city I've ever been in where almost everyone you meet on the street considers himself a comedian--a fact brought home to me a couple of years ago when a panhandler near my subway stop said to me, "Can you spare some change? I'd like to buy a few junk bonds.") In the matter of contentiousness, I once tried to indicate the difference between New York and the Midwest, where I grew up, by saying that in the Midwest if you approach someone who is operating a retail business and ask him if he has change for a quarter, he is not likely to call you a fascist. He is certainly not going to say, "G'wan--get lost." He would never say, "Ya jerky bastard, ya." New Yorkers are not polite. If you asked a New York cabdriver why he wasn't more polite, he might say something like, "Polite! Where do you think you are--Iowa or Indiana or one of them?" New York cabdrivers do not usually bother to distinguish among states that begin with I. Earlier this year, some booster organization in New York got the idea of launching a campaign to make New Yorkers more polite. Talk about cockamamie ideas! What are they--crazy? Do they think this is Illinois or Idaho or someplace? In the first place, the whole idea of a booster organization is as foreign to New York as Girl Scout cookies. (Yes, I know that thousands of Girl Scout cookies are sold every year in places like Queens and Staten Island. You think I'm a farmer or something?) I have never heard of a New York Chamber of Commerce. If it exists, I suspect it spends most of its time putting out press releases about aggravations. Also, telling New Yorkers not to be rude is the equivalent of telling Neapolitans not to talk with their hands: it could render us speechless. I don't think there's anything particularly surprising about the level of rudeness in New York. A lot of it is just show. New York has been portrayed in so many books and movies and stand-up acts that the stock characters know how to behave badly. They've all read their press clippings. The Jewish deli waiter knows what to say to an out-of-towner who asks if he could get a pastrami sandwich ("When I'm ready, I'll get" or "Listen, the pastrami here I wouldn't wish on Arafat"). The Irish cop knows how to act like an Irish cop who does not go overboard in showing respect to the citizenry. Some of the newer stock characters, like the Korean greengrocer and the Indian news dealer, aren't certain how to act yet--there haven't been enough movies about them--but when they do get it all hardened into a New York shtick, I rather doubt that they're going to sound like the flight attendant of the month. Also, I believe rudeness tends to vary in direct proportion to the size of the city, so it's only natural that the largest city is the rudest. It isn't just that the little daily irritations tend to build up in a large city faster than they do in a small town; it's the anonymity. In a small town, what you shout at someone who makes a sudden turn in front of you without a signal is limited in nastiness by the realization that you might find yourself sitting beside that person the next day at the Kiwanis lunch or the PTA meeting. If the town is small enough, the chance that you'll never see the offending party again is nonexistent. That puts a sort of governor on your behavior. In New York, the odds are almost the opposite; you are almost certainly not going to see that person again. The governor is removed. Knowing that, you might do a lot worse than "Ya jerky bastard, ya." Not you? Yes, you. Right at the top of the list you should write down that there's nothing genetic about any of this. New Yorkers weren't born that way. A lot of New Yorkers weren't even born in New York. Some of them were born on farms. I was born in Kansas City. If you moved to New York, you'd be a New Yorker, and you'd act like a New Yorker. You'd only glance for a moment at the guy costumed as Eleanor of Aquitaine. You'd scheme to get the last seat on the subway car. You'd become a comedian. You might even use harsh language with taxi drivers. You wouldn't behave that way? Well, how about Mother Teresa? Mother Teresa! Right. In Calcutta, Mother Teresa is probably an absolute pussycat, but if she moved to New York, she'd be a New Yorker. A couple of years ago, I started to use a true story about Mother Teresa to illustrate how all New Yorkers, living in what I believe could be considered a rather challenging environment, find themselves trying to get a little edge. Around 1987, Mayor Koch was briefly hospitalized with a slight stroke, and a few days later he got a surprise visit from Mother Teresa, who happened to be in town to establish a hospice. She told him he had been in her prayers, and he took the occasion to say that New York was grateful for her presence and that she should let him know if there was any way he could be of assistance. She said that as a matter of fact, there was one thing he might do. It would be helpful at the hospice to have a reserved parking spot. So envision this scene: here is Mother Teresa, perhaps a saint, making a sick call on a man who has just had a stroke--and she's trying to hustle him for a parking spot. You've got to say it's a tough town. </body> </article> </text>