Into the world of work spins Mother

Dressed in a bright white nurse's uniform with her little cap and spotless shoes that were religiously polished every evening at dusk with Sani-white, she hastened toward the train as always. How easy it would have been for her to take the car and park it at the station, but Mother would hear none
of that for she was quite robust and much in need of the exercise! A brief appearance at the In & Out Shop for a coffee and the morning paper was always in order for the day. Then it was down the old concrete staircase. Once there she would stand behind the yellow line on the platform with
other passengers of the day, lost in waiting. Gazing at her old Movado
watch the time read 6:40.

She would have dipped into her purse for a cigarette had she not quit
three years ago. Ah yes, those Benson & Hedges I remember so well.
What a horrible addiction it was and that damn smoke was everywhere!
When I was real young I used to throw up in the car. That was mainly because whenever my mother lit a cigarette, the windows were either shut tight or rolled down only about an inch. Must've been some kind of groovy fad they had going on back then in the early seventies because everyone was doing it. If I'm not mistaken, the name of the game was called "kill the person you're with." Around the bend she could hear the train approaching. As it slowed to a screeching halt where other citizens of the morning stood, the doors slid ever so gently open. One by one they got on and everyone found their prospective seats. Not so lucky were the people at the New Dorp station who seldom got a seat. There, some chose to wait for the next train. "Please step away from the closing doors" said the conductor in a refreshing voice that was interpreted by the intercom as "pzistst shheb avray rhumm tde crosching draws." Then the bell sounded and the doors slid tightly closed. Only then, did the train gently begin to pull away from the station. Each stop welcomed more passengers who boarded. Some wandered on as if in a robotic trance while others accepted their chore of duty with affluent grace. There were even a few straphangers who appeared so miserable that Mother thought they might be happier standing in front of the train than on it. Overall, the ride usually takes about fifteen minutes, but today it would be about twenty.

Getting off in Clifton, Mother walks casually across the street to the Navajo brown building, located on a neighboring hillside. It is called, United States Public Health Service Hospital, and would require eleven stops on the Staten Island Rapid Transit line. While the outmoded structure would appear somewhat haunting at night to a passerby,
its commodious interior was still busting with hyperactivity.

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Who had to get what done first and what needed to be done next had not stopped at all this century. Time moves on in its usual fashion as always but when you are sitting in that office, it feels like the old electric wall clock is still calibrated to 1942. There is nothing in that whole entire room that has been made before 1940, including Mother! Most of the time she's there a half hour early to read the paper or to chat with her colleagues before starting. Today, she's right on time.

In her office, you will find a big industrial fan situated in the corner to get her through a roaring hot summer and two big cast iron radiators to keep her comfortable as the snow falls and the wind chill drops below zero.
The windows in that building are enormous and still bear sash weights concealed within the confines of a sliding sash. Windows you can open and close with two fingers instead of two arms. Window frames made of solid wood! Not cheap aluminum replacements or even that white plastic garbage as seen in many typically renovated homes. Whenever I'm there, my mind fills with images of world war II and big Sherman tanks! I can imagine those war planes flying overhead with loud propellers and when you turn to look out the window, you almost expect to see them coming! Mother doesn't think much of it. She says, "when you've been here as
long as I have, you become acclimated." She also tells me one day she hopes to have a modern office. That the room is too dreary, like it's always raining outside. I've always found that to be rather pleasant,
if not totally exhilarating!

Often I would go there for a shot and while I was there I would make
sure to take my time strolling down those long impressive hallways. As I gazed about, ever observing my environment, I would find nothing had really changed since the McKinley administration. I must admit, the exterior face of the building's facade is a bit uninteresting and perhaps quite drab, but overall it served its purpose and its country quite well.
The way the floral arrangement is presented on the bright green lawn, which is cordoned off by the dark wrought iron gate, and the way it is
always kept perfectly mowed for all to see is an advantage. It infers you are entering a clean establishment and that is very important, but not
necessarily true. The archaic gate not only surrounds the lawn, but it also
encompasses the entire hospital. Every ten years or so the maintenance
crew were paid to paint it black. You cannot enter without first seeing
the guard alongside the building in his little security booth. You either
show him your card or he phones in an extension of the person you
are coming to see, thus confirming your appointment by decree.

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What I find to be the most interesting about this hospital is the basement. Walking down those long inviting corridors, you can literally see the changing of time. Look up and you will find hundreds of ancient pipes aligning the ceiling going to and fro and how strange they are to see!
The asbestos wrap coming free from the pipes and the discoloration
of the exposed material is quite formidable, to put it mildly. Down the narrow winding hallway, you will see a scabrous trail of paint that has fallen to the floor like snowflakes. Along the walls of the high ceiling and
six feet down one can see the old paint curling up like innocuous leaves
growing. Only recently has it been touched up, but only to the point
where the wall inverts.

I can recall stepping on one of the olive green shards back in 1969,
when I was admitted for scarlet fever. It made a distinct crunching sound, almost like, I had stepped on a small fragment of a light bulb. Gazing down at those tiny slivers beneath my feet, I just could not shake the feeling that I had been taken there to die. Needless to say, everyone
was friendly to me because my mother was an integral part of their organization. Being a good nurse does require a fair amount of camaraderie and that was comforting. Even so, I could not visualize ever returning to a normal state again, due to the bizarre disorientating effect
of the viral infection. Aside from a persistent fever that would not break,
I had the horrible sensation of a nightmarish post-nasal drip. The thick mucus coating which had adhered to the back of my throat like Elmer's glue, left me swallowing endlessly, yet to no avail. So numb and raw was this area, that a simple swallow resulted in great torment. Like sharp metal objects in a region of Novocain, or swallowing over a thousand impressed thorns. It simply did not wish to end, and I refused to cry, though I languished in misery while waiting for the end to come. 

I ponder through a looking glass
The mirror of the mind
To see what lies in wait
Time has me confined

To imagine the world put into perspective from a distant time; one
which precedes our own, can be quite an incentive for the stimulus
of the senses, when the rationalization of coming forth in an apathetic
society proves to be disheartening. Yes, we have more than we had before. This goes for any age, but we lose a little bit of ourselves,
each time we turn over our values for technological advancements.

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Do yourself a favor, if you are from out of town and decide to visit this
wonderful city of New York, make sure in your travels, you remember
to include McSorley's old ale house. Just tell the cabbie to take you to
the little saloon on 15 East 7th Street. Trust me, you will not be sorry.
Unless you are a recovering alcoholic, then I would strongly advise
against it! During the daytime hours when it's quiet you can look around
and take your share of pictures. If you're not a picture buff, and you
enjoy being in crowded places, then I suggest you go there at night.
Better yet, go there on a Friday or Saturday night. If you are an introvert
then doing this will be like committing social suicide! On the weekend,
there is a man standing by the door. This man will only let people in
as people exit because the little pub tends to get too crowded, and
regardless of what time it or how many people are inside, last call is
1am, like it or not.

On a good night, it may take you ten minutes just to reach the bathroom!
When inside, be sure to check out those antique porcelain stand-up
urinals! They all have that transparent crackle effect, which can be found
on old china and dishware. It's funny how the passing of time can bring
out that shattered effect, but yet allow it to still remain as a whole object;
intact and undamaged. If them urinals are original, I would say they date
back to 1854 when they built the place! I can only hope the old ale
house is still serving people long after we've been planted.

They have a saying in McSorley's inscribed on a wooden plaque that hangs within the establishment. It reads, "Be Good or Be Gone." It must have been referring to those ruffians of yesteryear who lived as people lived in the Wild West! Even as they grew older they still behaved as though they were in seventh grade making damn sure they would find
a reason to kick some poor guy's ass before day's end! I am happy in knowing that the only things they are pushing nowadays are the lilies
in an old, defunct graveyard. Chances are you will no longer see any troublemakers in McSorley's. It is because people today have more respect for history than those hooligans of age's past. You might, however, see a leprechaun or two if you tie a good enough load on,
but don't embarrass yourself by asking the bartender for a mixed drink! This is an Irish pub, and you will only find light and dark suds served here.

Close your eyes. You've walked into another time. A time where sawdust is still sprinkled on wooden floors. As you order yourself a hamburger
and a beer, pause to reflect in silence the years gone by while observing the museum-like atmosphere captured in time by pictures and paintings that adorn its walls. See the cash register, still in use from a time when they had first come about. Look around. See the cobwebs sagging down from wishbones left behind by young men of the Civil war, who had not returned to claim them. They are, in fact, still fighting. If you should go there in winter, gaze at the pot belly stove in the middle of the room and see how effective it works in keeping the whole establishment warm. Get a feel of how life use to be and be thankful for all you have now. Look out in the twilight hours of the day and if you are lucky, you may see snow coming down on the cobblestone street. Watch as it falls right outside the window where seldom a car will pass. People walk by but not that many, and it isn't long before inebriation unfurls a sad truth. . .
They've left the horse and wagon behind.

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