Hell's Kitchen 1978

Teachers intrigue their students. Gossip about their personal lives infiltrates young imaginations. This phenomenon begins in Kindergarten and continues well into college. Unlike other faculty in our department, my self-esteem was  not heightened by bragging about accomplishments. Only when specific questions were asked did I use stories as a way of imparting wisdom. 

This is a story about surviving by your instincts.

Hell's Kitchen 1978

In 1978, predators, peep shows, prostitutes and X rated films were the norm for the crime-ridden area known as Hell’s kitchen. I was a thirty-six year old, blonde, Twiggy look alike, assistant professor, paying $75.00 a month for my 43^rd Street rent controlled, fifth floor walk-up between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. There were three rooms, one of which was a closet for the toilet-only bathroom. The sink stood in the kitchen, next to the metal-topped, claw-foot bathtub, which doubled as a table.The living room looked onto the often over-flowing garbage cans and strewn pizza boxes on 43rd street. It was the decade when there were more characters on the streets of New York than on the stages of Broadway.

Prior to Disney’s arrival in NY, Hell’s Kitchen was a considered a violent place for a woman alone, but I walked the streets with cautious confidence because my New York raised, Irish Catholic, worse-case-scenario father had taught his only daughter the rules of survival:

            Always be sure and walk down the wider avenues.

            Avoid the narrow dimly lit side streets.

            Never walk too close to a building.

            If anyone follows you, cross the street., you can always cross back.

            Walk facing traffic so you can see the dangers that lurk ahead.

            When in doubt, follow your instincts.

Day and night, I avoided the Port Authority area replete with 42^nd Street drug dealers murmuring, “Loose joints? Loose joints?” Initially, I gave these lost souls loose change because I thought they needed money for a medical procedure. That was until a street savvy actor-friend set me straight. I learned a lot on the streets of New York especially to follow my father's advice.

One February night, I left the St. James Theatre on 44^th Street humming the show’s title song, On the Twentieth Century, to keep me warm. I always found comfort in the combination of words and music. I walked from the balcony into a raging blizzard.  I raised my jacket hood, focused on the snow covered sidewalk and headed for Broadway, a safer route than hooker-ridden Eighth Avenue. It was 11:30 pm and Broadway was empty. No cars, no cabs, no people!

I slid my way to the usually traffic filled 42^nd Street. It too, was empty except for a large mass moving toward me. I analyzed. Was it safer to skate across the wide street or to continue walking with courteous confidence and NO eye contact? I kept going. The screen of dense snow parted to reveal the mass it was a stereotypical pimp from central casting eying me.  He wore a white fur coat, matching Stetson hat, and wielded a white walking stick.

He surveyed my blonde hair, which peeked through the hood of my snow covered short parka. He scanned the jeans that clung to my thin body and called out in a loud voice “Hi ya baby!”

My nervous antennae began to emerge, but I ignored him and kept walking at the same pace, in order not to alert him to my rising fear. He turned and walked beside me, “Honey, you look lonely.”

He was close enough to seize me. I tried to remain calm and kept moving. He said in a deeper voice, “Hey, baby! Do you need a place to spend the night?”

I began to fall at the thought but grabbed a nearby church railing to steady myself. The ridiculousness of the situation drove me into a paralytic fit of laughter. I looked at him and laughed even harder, never thinking of the possible consequences. He gaped for a moment and then his mouth opened and his enormous white teeth grew into a large smile as he joined in the laughter. It was a New York moment! The two of us standing during a New York blizzard bent over with laughter and pointing at each other. I finally recovered enough to wave goodbye and headed home I thanked good old dad. for giving me  his final piece of advise, “Follow your instincts."