199. Roughriders on West 44th Street

     West 44^th Street between Sixth and Fifth Avenues in Manhattan is not my turf, and for at least three reasons.  On the north or uptown side of the street it harbors in close proximity (1) the exclusive Harvard Club rising in stately neo-Georgian splendor at 35 West 44^th ; (2) the very private New York Yacht Club at no. 37, a 1901 Beaux-Arts concoction jutting huge galleon-style windows over the street with sinuous braids of seaweed, as well as snails, shells, dolphins, ships, and leviathans in limestone -- a nautical extravaganza over which J.P. Morgan once reigned as commodore; and finally, for a very modern touch, (3) the Sofitel New York at no. 45, a luxury hotel where room 2806, the presidential suite, goes for $3,000 a night, and where, in another room, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, head of the International Monetary Fund and a leading candidate for the French presidency, was accused of sexually assaulting a maid.  And all three flying the flag!  With all due respect to Old Glory, I repeat that this is not my turf, because (1) I didn’t go to Harvard, (2) I don’t have a yacht, and (3) I don’t need a luxury hotel, least of all one that may have witnessed the grievous misdeeds of M. Strauss-Kahn.

Harvard Club

New York Yacht Club
Dmadeo

Sofitel New York
Rob Young

    And yet recently I found myself hurrying along that very block.  My goal  was neither the Harvard Club nor the Yacht Club nor the Sofitel, but another noble structure where I had never to date set foot: the New York City Bar Association at no. 42, an imposing Gilded Age edifice completed in 1897 and  

New York Bar Association 
Pattonnh

fronted by two soaring Doric columns.  Between those columns, taking shelter from a hint of rain, I waited patiently for the friend who had invited me to this address for a special occasion having nothing to do with the Bar.  As I waited there in my “business casual” attire—a polo shirt and slacks – I saw an endless procession of lawyerly types in jacket and tie and toting a bulging briefcase come and go, making me feel still more out of place.  Finally, toward noon, I ventured inside and beheld, stretching away into the inner recesses of this landmarked monument, a marble entrance hall worthy of Versailles.  Though tempted to explore, I did not proceed farther, since my destination was immediately to my right: the Hughes Room, a handsome high-ceilinged room with a woody feel that I peeked at from the doorway.

The entrance hall, which I longed to, but did not, explore.
Pattonnh

The original Roughrider, 1898.

     What brought me for the first time ever to the Hughes Room?  An invitation from my friend to attend a meeting of the Roughriders, a name that, for a history buff like me, evokes images of Teddy Roosevelt rampaging up San Juan Hill and into the White House, his wartime exploits having made him vice president and then president in his own right.  But no, the Roughriders, who got their name from the room at the Roosevelt Hotel where they originally met in 1956, are also known as the Toastmasters, and are a club of middle-class professionals working to hone their skills in public speaking.  At first thought there’s something rather quaint and charming about the notion of public speaking, suggesting the popular and often lucrative lecture circuits of the nineteenth century when Americans, having neither radio nor TV, flocked to lectures by visiting speakers (Mark Twain and William Jennings Bryan among them) in quest of entertainment, instruction, and inspiration.  But the Toastmasters, as we shall see, are a distinctly twenty-first-century breed of public speakers, very earnest and very professional.

     When my friend arrived, a young Taiwanese-born woman of many talents and many languages, she ushered me into the room, introduced me to several friends, and waved me toward the buffet luncheon.  Being famished, I helped myself generously and sat down at the long table in the center of the room and, even as I gobbled, took in my surroundings.  The Hughes Room is a handsome woody chamber with dreary rows of gray law books on low shelves around the walls, two chandeliers with ornate curlicues, handsome leather armchairs (like the one I was sitting in) with gilt-studded arms, and an impressive fireplace over which, in a thick gilt frame, hangs a large full-length portrait of a bearded gentleman who reeks of dignity and authority – surely Charles Evans Hughes, a former member of the Bar Association, who had given his name to the room. 

Charles Evans Hughes, as Governor of New York.  Not the
portrait in the Hughes Room, but still reeking dignity.

     I suspect that the assembling members of the club were little aware of Mr. Hughes’s presence, flanked though he is by two smaller portraits of likewise imposing dignitaries, and I myself only vaguely recalled him as a Supreme Court justice and an almost-president.  Later research would establish him as having been (though not simultaneously) Governor of New York, Associate and later Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Secretary of State and, in 1916, the Republican candidate for the presidency who lost out to Woodrow Wilson in a very tight election.  Legend has it that he went to bed thinking he had won, but by morning more results had come in, making Wilson the winner.  When a journalist phoned Hughes’s residence to get his reaction to the news, Hughes’s son or a servant (accounts differ) answered, saying, “The President is asleep.”  The journalist then replied, probably with a touch of malice, ‘When he wakes up, tell him he isn’t the President.”

     All of which has little to do with the Toastmasters, except to help establish the setting and my reaction to it.  The Roughriders Toastmasters Club meets every Thursday from noon to 2:00 p.m. to provide a workshop where members can perfect their speaking and leadership skills in a professional and supportive environment.  I was especially eager to attend this meeting, since my friend would be giving the climactic last speech of a ten-step program, each step of which involves giving a prepared speech with certain objectives in mind.  Just how this worked I would soon learn.

Curriculum of Toastmasters International, of which
the Roughriders are an affiliate.
Chris Charabaruk

     At 12:30 sharp the meeting was called to order by the presiding officer, a charming Japanese-American woman whose very presence there, reinforcing that of my Taiwanese-born friend, demonstrated the group’s diversity.  Yes, they were all well-educated and successful middle-class professionals with mysterious letters (ACB, CL, CC) appended to their names, but within that group there were members of very different backgrounds.  My friend, for instance, had worked in various business jobs on two continents and, besides her native Chinese, was fluent in English and Japanese and had some knowledge of German.  Also in the room were an African-American and an Orthodox Jew.  What brought these people together was a community of interests and purpose.  A good mix, worthy of New York.

     After some opening remarks, the fun began.  First, the Table Topics, brief impromptu talks on the theme “Where did the summer go?”  This prompted memories of summer jobs and summer vacations.  One speaker told of attending a Boy Scout camp and making a bit of money selling snakes, which for some reason were in hot demand.  Another told of mowing lawns and doing yard work, his toil seasoned by winks and come-ons from housewives in the absence of their hubbies – evidence of the looser morals of the 1970s, he observed, without relating what then, if anything, resulted.  (A good speaker’s ploy: leave them wanting more.)  Then and throughout the meeting, some speakers stayed close to the lectern, while others ranged freely about; all used gestures effectively.  The talks were carefully timed, with no one to go over the time allotted.  Members then voted on the best Table Talk speaker, and the winner received an award.

     Next came the main course of the banquet, the four prepared speeches.  By now I was impressed by the speaking skills of the members, who spoke without the notorious American mumble (we often speak in a monotone, barely opening our mouth), without ums, and without amplification.  (An example of ums:  “I’m glad you asked that because … um … it’s especially relevant to what … um … we’re taking about.”)

     The first speaker I had some trouble understanding, perhaps because of projection but perhaps also, in that high-ceilinged room, because of acoustics; but she was well received.

     My friend was the second speaker; her theme, “Life Is Better in Two,”  was meant to inspire.  The gist of it was simple: should a single woman of 38, committed to her work and successful, get a dog, as a friend suggested, or instead start looking for a husband?  (Which reminds me of the old radio soap opera “The Romance of Helen Trent,” which asked if a woman 35 or older could still find romance; needless to say, Helen did, albeit in a respectable 1930s way, thus giving hope to frustrated housewives throughout the nation.)  While speaking, my friend smiled graciously and seasoned her talk with humor, and in her quest for a husband stressed the importance of not giving up.  After some missteps she did indeed find a husband – a handsome, gray-haired older man who was sitting at the far end of the table – and has now been happily married for five years.  When she took him to Taiwan to meet her family, who had all but given up on her marrying, they liked him immediately, though she had to school him in the ways of Chinese culture, very different from ours.  Though hers was a serious theme, and inspiring, she had us smiling or laughing throughout. 

     (Another point of view is of course possible.  Recently a Visiting Nurse from the Caribbean came to my partner Bob, absolutely radiant with joy; the mere sight of her gladdened us both. “You know why I’m so happy?” she asked, unsolicited.  “Because there’s no man in my life!”  She left us almost singing.)

     The third speaker, giving a step #2 speech meant to inform, had chosen the theme “Accentuate the Positive.”  She asked if we knew, on average, what percentage of our thoughts are negative, and solicited guesses from the members.  (Hazard a guess; the answer follows below.)  She then emphasized the need for positive thinking and at one point had us singing that old song, “You’ve got to accentuate the positive.”  Her message resonated with me since, being under great pressure that morning, I had probably registered 90% negative, though attending this meeting brought it down to 10 or less.

     The last speaker, already a professional speaker, had for a theme “Take Me to Your Leader” and emphatically made the point, “You yourself are your leader,” with all the responsibilities entailed.  Not a bad conclusion to that segment of the meeting.

     Members then voted for the best speaker and, to her genuine surprise, my friend got the award.  Evaluations of each speech by another member followed, for the group has no instructor, and members are always evaluated by their peers.  The evaluations were detailed, often complimentary, and tactful in criticism, with attention to facial expressions, gestures, eye contact, and the use of humor.  Another member serving as “grammarian and um counter” then made a report, having kept track of grammar lapses and those invasive ums.  There can’t have been many of either, since the report was brief and now escapes my memory. 

      The meeting adjourned at 2:00 p.m. on the dot, at which point members engaged in a social free-for-all, and the babble level rose.  My friend  introduced me to her husband – the first prosecutor I have ever met -- who said he has stories from his work to tell, but not until he retires.  He was impeccably dressed, spoke with rather clipped words, and struck me as very New York, being charged with energy, but channeled energy, disciplined --  in the courtroom, I suspect, a power to reckon with.  Who today, come to think of it, could have more need of good public speaking skills than an attorney addressing a jury?

     So ended my session with the Roughriders, unique in my experience: a friendly bunch but serious, very professional, highly motivated, submitting readily to a structured environment where speeches are monitored by a timekeeper, grammar lapses are noted, and ums are counted.  My friend has urged me to come and speak to them, but given the level of their skills, I wouldn’t so presume; I can just imagine the awkward pauses, the grammatical lapses that would occur, and the ums that would multiply to the point … um … where the counter … um … would lose count.  Besides, I’m a writer; my concern is with the written, not the spoken, word.

     Regarding prepared speeches, I have one cautionary remark.  The challenge is to keep them spontaneous – the same challenge that actors face in performing a role over and over again.  But in this regard the Roughriders did rather well.

     I have often been struck by the contrast between the cultivated, articulate, disciplined speech of British public figures and the mumbling, rambling flabbiness of our own.  Granted, some of our presidents have acquitted themselves fairly well.  Roosevelt – not the Roughrider, the other one – had a patrician grace seasoned with humor that went over with the masses, and he left us some memorable phrases:

·      “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  (From his first inaugural address, in the pit of the Depression.)

·      “I welcome their hatred.”  (Referring to the forces of “organized money.”)

·      “A day that will live in infamy.”  (Of Dec. 7, 1941, when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.)

FDR giving a fireside chat on the radio -- a tough act to follow.

     His successor, Truman, was feisty and blunt on the stump – no refined speaker, but with a directness that got him elected.  Eisenhower, while eminently likable, rambled a bit, and his slurred speech – “in’erestin’” -- drove English teachers to despair.  John F. Kennedy had wit, but Lyndon Johnson did not; his folksy Texan ways failed to inspire.  Jimmy Carter had sincerity, and Ronald Reagan projected warmth, made people feel deep-down good.  Poppa Bush admittedly lacked “the vision thing,” but he is not alone.  Bill Clinton was garrulous, using five words where two would do.  Baby Bush could walk onstage with a snappy stride, but his few memorable utterances were uninspired, if not calamitous (“Bring ’em on,” when our troops in Iraq had their hands full).  Our current President has certainly had his moments, but we need more of them.  Conclusion: most of our post-World War II Presidents could have profited from a few sessions with the Roughriders – in fact, most of them needed the whole ten-step program.

     This was not always the case with our public figures, as seen in two famous speeches delivered by American politicians of another age.  In 1830 Senator Daniel Webster of Massachusetts took on Senator Robert Hayne of South Carolina in a passionate speech defending the Union and the Constitution, his words flowing so smoothly and eloquently that one who heard him likened them to the steady flow of molten gold.  Resonating even today, and carved in the pedestal of his statue in Central Park, is his concluding affirmation of “liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable.”  Many consider this the most eloquent speech ever delivered in Congress. 

     For the second example of good public speaking, we’ll fast forward to 1896.  At the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Representative William Jennings Bryan of Nebraska delivered a speech that pitted silver versus gold as legal tender (or, more accurately, silver and gold versus gold alone), the West and South versus the Northeast, the common man versus Eastern elites, farmers and laborers versus businessmen and bankers, the agrarian Great Plains versus Wall Street in the distant, wicked city of New York.  A passionate speech eliciting much applause, it concluded  dramatically, “You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold!”  As he spoke these words, he pressed his hands to his temples, then extended his arms to his sides and held this pose briefly, as if offering himself as a sacrifice. 

     Hammy, we may think today, but things were different back then.  As he left the podium to return to his seat, the audience sat in stunned silence, and Bryan feared that he had failed. Then, suddenly, the convention hall burst into pandemonium as delegates cheered and tossed hats and handkerchiefs in the air, and hoisted Bryan to their shoulders to carry him around the floor in triumph.  Often hailed as the most effective American political speech ever made, the Cross of Gold Speech made Bryan, at the tender age of 36, the 1896 Democratic candidate for the presidency.  Bryan lost the election to the Republican, William McKinley, but from then on he was a major political figure to contend with, and the Democratic presidential candidate again in 1900 and 1908. 

An artist's portrayal of the pandemonium following
Bryan's Cross of Gold Speech.

     Obviously, in those days public speaking counted; it could vault you into  influence and power.  As for today, with the pre-election presidential debate season already in full swing, well seasoned with impassioned shouting matches and insults, I’ll let the voters decide who measures up and … um … who doesn’t.

     Papal mass:  The Pope left yesterday, after a tumultuous greeting here, and the city can now breathe a sigh of relief and try to get back to normal (whatever that may be).  Yesterday he celebrated a Mass at Madison Square Garden for some 20,000 people.  Tickets were almost impossible to come by, and hours ahead of time there was a line that stretched for fifteen blocks in Midtown.  What's not so well known is the fact that a special team of volunteers were on hand, stationed throughout the Garden, to make sure that everyone who received the host at Communion consumed it, instead of taking it home as a souvenir.  So far as I know, no unpleasant scenes resulted, and the hosts did get consumed.  Outside the Garden all kinds of papal souvenirs were available, including T-shirts, caps, squeezable dolls, umbrellas, and an 8-inch-tall bobblehead beaming a benign papal smile.  

     Sex sells:  An artist friend showing at the recent Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit told me, “Red sells.”  When I went home and checked the five works of his that I own, I found that two of them had a dash of red right in the center, immediately drawing the eye.  Yes, red sells.  And when I checked the number of views for the last post of this blog, “New York Hustlers,” I found that the total for the first  day it appeared (Sunday) was 206 – far more than usual.  And for Monday it was 140, and for Tuesday, 150 – again, more than usual for the days following publication of a post.  My post wasn’t about hustlers in the sense of male prostitutes, but viewers coming to the post didn’t know that.  And who, besides Americans, were interested?  The Irish.  And which other posts are perennial favorites?  Man/Boy Love: The Great Taboo (#43, Jan. 20, 2013), the all-time favorite, and Francis J. Spellman, the Controversial Cardinal (#136, July 20, 2014), which ends with the inevitable question: Was he or wasn’t he?  Yes, sex sells.

     Coming soon:  New York Humor.  Is there a New York sense of humor?  For New Yorkers, what is funny and what isn’t?  In the offing: Bedford Street, then Hate.  And maybe – just maybe – the imperious Donald (and I don’t mean Donald Duck).

     ©  2015  Clifford Browder

     And oh yes, the book:  From those who read it, a review in Amazon would be much appreciated.

198. New York Hustlers

     The word “hustler” has many meanings.  It can mean a male prostitute, but publisher Larry Flynt’s Hustler magazine is a monthly porn sheet that is blatantly, flagrantly heterosexual.  In this post I take “hustlers” to mean people who promote themselves or something else aggressively.  Hustlers of this variety are endemic in New York City and always have been.  This city is a mecca for hustlers of every kind, from the Wall Street sharper to the sorriest, most down-and-out panhandler.  In previous posts I’ve covered plenty of them, as for instance:

·      Panhandlers (#143)

·      Patent medicine men (#191)

·      Andy Warhol (#108)

·      Robert Moses, the master builder (#78)

·      Leona Helmsley, the Queen of Mean (#81)

·      Walter Winchell (#86)

·      Fiorello La Guardia (#102)

·      Norman Mailer (#139)

·      Al Sharpton (#164)

Some might question one or another of these as examples of the hustler --  Andy Warhol, I’m told, had a very gentle manner -- but I think that each, in his or her own way, showed the aggressiveness typical of the species.  Not included here, however, are the subway and sidewalk entertainers described in vignette #6; some of them may verge on hustling, but to label all such entertainers “hustlers” would be too inclusive, and unfair.  The true hustler is usually pushy and often, though not always, offensive.

Some of them do have imagination … and a sense of humor.

     An exuberant and especially gifted hustler was Jim Fisk (posts #44 and #61ff.), who graduated from Yankee peddler in Vermont to impresario and Wall Street robber baron, promoting himself and his wares -- whether calicoes or cancans or the stock of the near-bankrupt Erie Railway – with vigor and flair.  And his successors, whether they’ve heard of him or not, flourish on Wall Street today.  Wall Street is, and always has been, a nest of hustlers, a stewpot of greed.  (And a few reasonably honest individuals as well, but who ever hears of them?)  Which reminds me of what a Wall Streeter of some years back once said: “Aim for the stars and you get chorus girls.  Aim for chorus girls and you get nothing.”  Which goes a long way toward explaining the mental make-up of the hustler.

     Have I ever been hustled?  (And I don’t mean by male prostitutes, though there’s a recent exception.)  Yes.  Long ago, while dining in a New York restaurant with friends on Halloween, our table was approached by a young black kid who wanted money – a twisted variation of “trick or treat,” since he wore no costume and just wanted cash.  How he even got in there I can’t imagine.  In any case, we gave him nothing.

     And once, returning from vacation, I was approached at Grand Central Station by another young black kid who opened a taxi door for me and for this needless act wanted a tip.  The taxi driver told him to clear out, but, being in a good mood, I gave him a quarter.

     On another occasion I saw a woman in a floor-length nunlike gown stride boldly into a bar and get, from an obliging bartender, a dollar or two, and then immediately leave – bound, no doubt, for other bars.  She was, of course, a hustler, for no authentic nun would walk into a bar in quest of donations.  In my experience a nun may sit quietly in a public place, eyes down, with a dish for donations, but she never solicits and rarely even makes eye contact with others.  Long ago I used to see one in the subway, but now, come to think of it, I haven’t seen any for years.

     Lately, getting soft of heart and head, I’ve often given to beggars if they look old and somewhat decrepit, but rarely if they look young and healthy, and never if they get pushy.  In other words, never if they come on like a hustler.

     And once, just a few weeks ago, I had a curious adventure.  It was the night of my eye surgery, and with a big patch over my right eye I had gone to bed early, but an hour later I heard the hall door, which we never close tight, creak and squeak a bit, which told me someone had entered the apartment.  Flashlight in hand and still half asleep, I went to investigate and found a young man in his mid- to late twenties just inside the door.

     “I saw your door was open,” he explained.  “I’m waiting for a friend.  Would you mind if I used your bathroom?”

     Being barely awake and not knowing everyone in the building, much less their friends, I said yes.  Minutes later he called me into the bathroom, said that his belt was broken and asked if I could give him some rubber bands to fix it.

     “Rubber bands?” I asked incredulously.

    “Or some string,” he added.

     Eager by now to get rid of him, I fetched both rubber bands and string.  But when I returned to the bathroom he had dropped his pants enough to display the family jewels, a sight I could barely believe.  My look of total disinterest must have registered, for he then announced, “I can do this in the hall,” and departed with the string.  Anxious to prevent his return, I put a heavy wooden card table against the slightly open door, so if the door budged even a little, the table would fall with a crash.  The night passed peacefully, and now it all seems like a dream.

     Was my visitor a hustler in the broadest sense?  Absolutely.  And in the narrower sense, meaning a male prostitute?  I assume so, but certainly not a professional, or he wouldn’t have wasted time on me, when he could have been hanging out where hustlers hang out and their patrons know to find them. 

A pro.
Sasha Kargaltsev

     But enough of this amateur; let’s have a look at the pros.  The subject has come up recently because Mayor de Blasio has talked of eliminating the pedestrian mall at Times Square and returning it to traffic – a proposal that alarms and dismays New Yorkers and visitors alike.  The problem is hustlers, meaning in this case the costumed Elmos, red-suited with goggle eyes, and the armored Iron Men, big-eared Minnie Mouses (or Mice?), and brazen bare-breasted desnudas with wild feathered headdresses, all of whom have evidently been harassing tourists for tips, and hefty tips at that.

Elmo and Minnie greeting Muslin women in headscarves.
InSapphoWeTrust

     So who are these hustlers?  For the most part, as noted in post #143 just a year ago, Latino immigrants willing to parade about in cartoon-character costumes that are stiflingly hot in the sticky summer heat, so they can stand beside children while their parents take photos, following which Elmo or Minnie wants a tip.  Or topless Latinas with feathered headdresses, painted breasts, and thongs who pose with male tourists for photos and hope to extract twenty dollars or more.  Costumed or near naked, Times Square hustlers usually speak little English, fear deportation if arrested, and would do something else if they could.  Interviewed, a nineteen-year-old Nicaraguan Spider Man says he averages $9 an hour, better than he would do with a job, if he could get one. 

     In fairness, it should be noted that tourists with children often initiate contact with Spider Man or the Cookie Monster, and some desnudas insist that they don’t bother anyone, that being topless in New York isn’t illegal (true enough), and that it’s only a few of them who harass tourists and give them all a bad name.  And let’s face it, these antics are a part of New York, they’re what bring tourists here eager to see something in the deliciously wicked city that you can’t find in Topeka or Des Moines.  (No offense intended to Topeka or Des Moines, which are probably delighted not to be so graced.)

     Let’s have a look at some other types of New York hustlers.  In Brooklyn a few years ago young black gang members would jam the dollar-bill slot in MetroCard machines, so commuters couldn’t buy cards; then the hustlers  would offer to get them through the turnstile by selling them an illegal swipe for a dollar or two, or for the same fee let them through a service gate.  This being clearly illegal, arrests followed.

     More controversial are the young black hip-hop artists who peddle their compact disks to passersby in Times Square.  Often arrested for disorderly conduct and aggressive begging, the rappers claim that they aren’t breaking the law, that the police have it in for them, treat them differently from other vendors, and violate their First Amendment rights.  The police insist that the rappers shove CDs at pedestrians, block the sidewalk, and follow potential customers down the street – allegations that the rappers claim are phony, causing their cases ultimately to get dismissed.  Some of the rappers have been arrested thirty times, and in 2014 their exasperation reached the point where eight of them filed joint lawsuits in Manhattan Federal Court against the city and 17 policemen.  How their lawsuit is playing out I don’t know, but these guys are spunky and innovative, tailoring their sales pitch to what people are wearing and how they look.  They remind me of the squeegee men who used to clean the windshields of cars stopped for a red light, for which unsolicited service they hoped to get a tip.

A squeegee man at work, albeit with no squeegee in evidence.

     Another species of hustlers are the Buddhist monks in orange robes who haunt the High Line, Bryant Park, and Times Square, pushing cheap amulets at passersby and expecting, even demanding, a tip.  I saw one once on Sixth Avenue offering his trinkets right and left, but now they’re all over the city.  When one on the High Line got five dollars from a visitor, the holy man  protested, wanting twenty.  Of course they are fakes, just like the nun I in the bar.  Usually they are Chinese immigrants who return to flophouses in Flushing, Queens, with their day’s earnings, some of them doffing their robes en route on the subway, before setting out in khakis and Nike sneakers for a meal spiced with liquor in a local restaurant.  Some have also been seen sneaking a smoke on the sly, or napping on ledges of the Fifth Avenue public library.  Real Buddhist monks might carry a beggar’s bowl to receive gifts of money or food, but they would never aggressively solicit cash, and  would shun cigarettes and alcohol.  Authentic New York Buddhists are offended by these fakers, who disrespect the faith.

Even in Hong Kong.  Is it a franchise?

     An observer who recently surveyed the Times Square scene reported the aforementioned costume characters, topless cuties, CD hawkers, and bogus monks, but also these:

·      Ticket hustlers who try to sell you tickets for comedy clubs, Broadway shows, and bus tours

·      Coupon hustlers who thrust at you coupons for sandwiches, massages, and strip clubs

·      The Naked Cowboy playing his guitar in his undershorts, now joined by scantly clad Naked Cowgirls likewise strumming guitars

·      Statue people who stand stock still, spray-painted gold or silver or purple, including one or several Lady Liberties, sea-foam green replicas of the Statue of Liberty

·      Religious hucksters parading about with signs urging REPENT! FOLLOW JESUS and similar messages, and buttonholing passersby to ask if they can tell you about their Savior

·      A very middle-class-looking man in a jacket and tie, giving an intense deadpan stare and flaunting a sign TV IS BRAINWASHING

And some of them get into fights with one another, which should vastly enhance the entertainment of tourists.

Kris from Seattle

 

     Another kind of hustler is the testosterone huckster.  Is Low T making you feel like a shadow of your former self? asks the bold-face ad.  The solution for low energy and low sex drive, this and other ads propose, is one or another prescription drug.  U.S. sales of testosterone boosters, a mere $324 million in 2002, soared to about $2 billion in 2012.  And in 2012 drug makers spent $107 million advertising top brand-name testosterone drugs in the U.S.  “Low T” is now proclaimed a malady with symptoms like listlessness, increased body fat, and moodiness, and multitudes of 40-year-old males and up have been convinced that they need these drugs, the long-term effects of which have yet to be determined. 

     Should aggressive advertising like this be termed “hustling,” and its practitioners “hustlers”?  All advertising involves a good bit of hustling, but the aggressiveness of testosterone marketing inclines me to say yes.  Likewise the ubiquitous subway ads, big and colorful, of Dr. Zizmor, a Manhattan-based dermatologist with unblemished features, who promises “beautiful, clear skin.”  I would label all today’s medical hustlers a new phenomenon, if their ads didn’t echo the blatant claims of the nineteenth-century patent medicine men, who, unlike today’s hucksters, didn’t have a legitimate degree in medicine.

Ernie in later years.

     A different kind of hustler that I have just read about online haunted neither Times Square nor Bryant Park nor any other park, but only the city’s bowling alleys.  Back in the 1960s those alleys were jammed all night with bowlers and the cigar-puffing gamblers, some of them gangsters, who bet on the games.  It was the time of action bowling, a high-stakes form of gambling in which bowlers, often only in their teens, played for thousands of dollars.  The king of the scene was an arrogant kid from Manhattan’s West Side named Ernie Schlegel, a real New York wiseguy with scraggly blond hair who favored black stovepipe pants, a white silk shirt, and an iridescent raincoat.  Before he bowled, he’d have one drink and then throw a shot of bourbon on his head or down his neck, so that he reeked of liquor, and his opponents became overly confident, thinking he was drunk.  The result?  “I crushed ’em.”  Working weekdays as a stock boy at a watch store, he earned $42.50 a week, but in a single night of bowling he could pocket hundreds, and once even $7,800, in cash.  Little wonder that, drooping with exhaustion at work, he quit before they could fire him.  His parents disapproved, until he showed them his earnings -- wads of cash stuffed in his bureau drawers. 

     Once the other bowlers got wise to his tricks, Ernie’s hustling days were over.  It was years before the PBA (Professional Bowlers Association) let him join their tours, but in 1976 he toured the nation with them as the Bicentennial Kid, wearing a white jumpsuit decked with blue sequins, red-white-and-blue shoes, and aviator sunglasses.  After that he went on to win legitimately a series of titles in bowling matches and become a PBA Hall of Famer.  But he still had his New York chutzpah, declaring “I am the greatest!” and promising to take on any challenger and “beat the living daylights out of him!”  An unrepentant hustler, but one who finds time to coach young bowlers, too.

     Some of the bowling hustlers were not above out-and-out cheating.  They would drill a hole in a bowling ball, pour mercury in, and plug the hole with a liquid that hardened overnight.  As the “loaded” ball rolled, the mercury would shift in the ball, making it go sideways and topple more pins.  When some of the gangsters who bet on the games discovered that one bowler was throwing a loaded ball, they took the offender outside, flattened him on the ground, held his bowling bowl high above their heads, and smashed his hand with it, so that he never bowled again.  Another bowler, having bet on himself to lose, learned that some gun-toting gangsters had bet on him to win, and so he faced a dilemma: he could win and lose his bet, or he could lose and risk the wrath of the gangsters.  But never underestimate the resourcefulness of a hustler.  Getting up to throw the next ball, he grabbed his chest, faked a heart attack, and collapsed.  Taken away in an ambulance, he lived to bowl another day.

     I hesitate to label political wannabes hustlers, since campaigning requires a good deal of aggressive self-promotion.  But among today’s Republican wannabes one goes beyond the bounds, breaks all the rules, and merits the name of hustler: Donald Trump.  New Yorkers – meaning residents of the city or the state – have rarely made it to the White House, with the exception of two, both of whom bore the magical name of Roosevelt.  The others failed for one of two reasons: they struck Middle America as either too brash or too suave, and probably of dubious morality as well.  Trump is the epitome of brash, a thrice-married, rude New Yorker who has lived all his life in Gomorrah, meaning New York City.  Similarly, Rudolph Giuliani failed in the 2008 primaries and caucuses, when mainstream Republicans saw in him a brash and bullying New Yorker who had likewise been married two times too many.  

Can a hustler become President?  Time will tell.
Gage Skidmore

     As for suave, the rich and sophisticated Nelson Rockefeller failed to get the Republican nomination in 1964, being seen as too Eastern establishment, too urban and urbane, and divorced as well, and married to a divorced woman.  And in the 1970s John Lindsay, a Republican turned Democrat, lost out because he struck mainstream voters as too smooth, too big-city sophisticated, too to-the-manner-born, too bright, and I’d almost add too handsome, too dapper.  Hustlers or not – and Rockefeller and Lindsay certainly weren’t hustlers – New Yorkers just can’t cut it with the great masses of voters who decide presidential elections.

     So who are the New York hustlers?  People who are desperate but resourceful, and too full of energy to give up.  People who are driven, who have to do, who can’t stand still.  And why do they hustle?  For money, for excitement, for power, and for glory.  Whatever you think of them, New York wouldn’t be New York without them.  But if you encounter them, hang on to your wallet and your wits. 

     Note on sources:  Information on New York hustlers is available from numerous sources online.  For action bowling, I am especially indebted to a 2012 article by Gianmarc Manzione, who interviewed many of the action bowlers in their later years or quoted from earlier interviews.

     An update:  When walking on 42^nd Street near Times Square the other day, I saw an African-American couple negotiating with a fake Buddhist monk who seemed to be offering a trinket.  “He’s a fake,” I whispered as I walked briskly by.  They flashed a smile; perhaps they didn’t care.  And when, a bit later, I made a quick foray into Times Square, I didn’t see a single Elmo, a single Spider Man or Minnie.  Either they were off duty or, aware of the Mayor’s diatribe, they were lying warily low.  But they are still around, and a coalition of elected officials, property owners, and business leaders has proposed, as a solution for the Times Square mess, three different zones: activity zones for hustlers; civic zones for public events or special programs; and flow zones where pedestrians can pass through freely, without being harassed.  Confined to activity zones, the hustlers would not be allowed to operate elsewhere.  Will it come to pass?  Who knows?

     Coming soon:  Roughriders on West 44^th Street, posing two pertinent questions: (1) What percentage of our thoughts are negative?  (2) Should a successful single businesswoman of 38 with international experience get a dog or starting looking for a husband?  Plus a side glance at a candidate who went to bed thinking he was the president elect, and woke up to learn that he wasn’t.

     My new book:  Many thanks to those of you who have ordered it, and no problem with those who have not; it will find its readers.  The cheaper e-book will soon be available.

     ©  2015  Clifford Browder