Cool Cats
by Martin Kleinman
As I write this, my smart phone tells me the weather ‘round the bend calls for sunny skies with temperatures in the low sixties.
Which Real New Yorkers know means that, after three days of lovely spring weather, “Soylent Green” tree pollen will crust our cars and the THI will spike to swampy – and stay there until September.
I am reminded of one Jack White — not the musician but my early-in-life body shop guy off Jerome Avenue, north of Yankee Stadium and south of Eddie’s Bike store. This mountain of a man knew how to deal with the New York City summer heat. He’d pluck a White Owl out of a chest pocket in his denim overalls, ignite a match with his clam shell-sized thumbnail, light up, exhale luxuriantly, and philosophize.
“Can’t let it git to ya,” he’d drawl, buffing out a Fairlane fender. “Got to think cool. Stay cool. Be cool.
“Ya see: ya got to be a coooooool cat.”
As a young working guy, it seemed as if New York summer streets bubbled like fire-roasted marshmallows underfoot. So hot, my car’s gas tank seals would seep leaded Shell gas, which sold for 34.9 cents a gallon back then. So hot that, on the fan-conditioned Redbird IRT cars, the sweat would cascade from one’s hair, down the neck and back and soak the tighty whities.
When we were young kids, up to our early teens, soaked after playing flies-up in Harris Field, we’d end our days hanging out on the stoops, or in front of our apartments, on cheap folding beach chairs. There, we’d cavort with the older teenagers, who took us under their wings, turned on their transistor radios, and taught us the lyrics to top 40 hits over AM stations such as WMCA, WINS, or WABC. Later, the little kids would chase fireflies, or ride our bikes until we were wringing wet with sweat.
Finally, exhausted, we’d hang out with our parents, desperate to catch some bit of gossip or a dirty word or two. That is, until — at our parents’ command — it was upstairs we went, to sleep on the fire escape. On the roof. Or on a sheet-less bed, tossing and turning in front of an oscillating Vornado fan, which uselessly blew the hot heavy air this way, and that. This way, and that.
Once we reached our late teens, cooling off during a heat wave meant taking to the road. In our creaking Mavericks, Plymouth 330s, push-button transmission Valiants, and VW Beetles, us Bronx guys would head to the beach. We could always be spotted as Bronxites as we crossed the Jones Beach Sahara of West End 2, dressed in sleeveless undershirts, swimming trunks, black low-cut Converse sneakers and black Banlon socks, carrying towels and huge aluminum cooler chests filled with prosciutto and provolone heroes and cans of ice cold liquid refreshment.
After the bumper-to-bumper trip home, shoulders red with sunburn, we’d shower and – with a quick goodbye muttered in the general direction of our families – head to the block-long banks of phone booths on Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse. There, we enjoyed newfound privacy, huddled in an accordion-door booth. Inches outside your glass garrison, we were surrounded by hordes of like-minded teens on the make, noisily waiting their turn for their few minutes of phone passion.
Or, we’d drive north to Ardsley, for the simple pleasure of a Flying Saucer at Carvel. Or maybe some hot dogs, corn on the cob and the extravagance of a shrimp boat at Adventurers Inn on Central Avenue.
Or off to City Island we’d go, to catch the oily, diesel-smelling “sea” air. A special treat was heading down City Island Avenue to the end, to Johnny’s Reef, for fried clam bellies, fries and ice cold beers. Or, with our dates, to the hippie haven, dessert place of the 70s, The Black Whale.
I can’t help but think back through the decades, to those long-gone, sweltering days of summer, even as we finally seem to shake off the vestiges of another long-winded winter. Consider these few facts:
• No a/c in our apartments, cars or subways;
• Limited funds for movies, bowling or other air-conditioned venues;
• Refrigerators were small, and the freezer sections were smaller still, and not all that cold – ice cubes were precious commodities and ice cream puddled in minutes.
But we survived the heat, humidity and torpor of New York City summers. Hell — it was summer. Summers were hot.
We didn’t let it git to us, as Jack White would tell me, finishing off the repair to the black fiberglass fender of my modded ‘69 VW Bug, his head enshrouded in cigar smoke. We’d think cool. Stay cool. Be cool.
I guess, in some ways at least, maybe we really were cooooool cats.
It’s called “coping” – a nearly lost art.
