As far as I’m concerned, New York City starts at Washington Square and leaves off at One Hundred and Sixteenth Street. There is a strange land to the north called the Bronx. The people who live there apologize by saying, “I live in the Bronx. I hate it, but after all, what can you do?” In another direction lies a wild territory named Brooklyn. This I have heard just grew without any purpose. The streets are maze-like. And the Brooklynites claim that not even they have yet explored the entire place. Another remote region is Queens. The inhabitants of the settlement are very smug about their green trees, their fresh air, and their superior children. Most of these discerning individuals spend half of their time pushing to and from “that detestable Manhattan.”  Then, someplace way out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean lies the Borough of Richmond [Staten Island]. The last time I heard about this was in my geography book.

 

Attached by slender threads to the southern end of my New York City are Wall Street, China Town, and the Bowery. Wall Street is spoken of throughout the world in terms of awe. In reality it is a narrow, ugly-looking lane where ambitious men go mainly to develop heart disease. The Bowery is a colony that nobody gives a damn about. Homeless and penniless men are shoved down there and isolated as if they were lepers. Once in a while aspiring authors write sentimental tales about the street of forgotten men. But these stories, after a few tears have been shed over them, are soon forgotten as their heroes. China Town is a dirty-looking place, where sightseeing buses carry passengers who stretch long necks to peer at yellow faces whose owners have better manners than their observers.

 

The New York I know is famous for its Washington Square, Empire State Building, and Rockefeller Center. Washington Square is the Noah of New York. Out of this section grew the city, and into it flows the human products of the city. Here live in harmony artists, actors, students, business men, and loafers. It is generally described, much to the distress of us inhabitants, as “the place where all the nuts live.”  The Empire State Building just stands in dull majestic disappointment and waits for out-of-towners to ride up to the 96th floor. Rockefeller Center thumbs its nose at all the smart-alecs who laughed when it was being born.

 

The main routes of the city are four avenues — Tenth, Broadway, Fifth and Park. Tenth Avenue has the shadiest reputation, as a place where gangsters shoot you down on sight and where all the kids play on dead-end streets. It’s really a nice wide street with poor-looking tenements simply waiting for the Housing Department to lend a helping hand. The gangsters are hard-working men willing to do the dirty work of the city. Their faces are rough, but the kind that look well and dependable under a soldier’s cap. The kids’ faces are perhaps more dirty than those to be found east of Tenth Avenue, but they are just as fat and as innocent.

 

There’s only one Broadway, and that lies between Forty-second and Fifty-seventh streets. In spite of the hot dog stands and burlesque barkers, Broadway still retains shreds of its old glamour. These remnants are found in the diminishing army of show people. Their brave and gay faces stand out in the milling crowds. The “hams” still congregate in front of the Palace, and the musicians clutter up Forty-ninth street, while the chorus girls hurry along with their little black rehearsal bags.

 

Fifth Avenue is the city’s exhibit street. Here “panhandlers” can’t work unless they’re dressed in the best mode. Trucks are not allowed, but private limousines can park all day. Here pass the world’s smartest women appraising each other by their clothes.

 

Park Avenue is the street where “nice people” live — “nice people” being those who have the money to pay “nice rents.” Consequently debutantes live next door to kept women, millionaires next to racketeers.

At nine a.m. this city awakens. It is a sleepy, grouchy-looking New York. Underground roaring subways race feverishly to deliver tightly-packed passengers to their destinations. The travelers glare, jostle and jab as if trying to get even with the world for having to get up so early. Above in the streets unhappy victims rush, heedless of the beautiful morning, into large, forbidding-looking office buildings. By eleven o’clock the mad pace has slightly abated. Messengers are strolling on the boss’s time from office to office. Faces seem more resigned to the daylight.

 

In the Grand Central waiting rooms, dejected forms are sitting reading the papers that offered no jobs, and waiting for five o’clock to come so that they can go home. Others sit abstractedly trying to figure out life. A few people are waiting for trains. On Sixth Avenue in the Forties wan-faced men and women are hopelessly scanning boards on the outside of shabby employment agencies, while over on Fifth Avenue bored-faced gentlemen are relaxing behind desks wondering if they’ll be able to afford a new car next year.

 

At noon the office buildings release their multitudes again and workers pour into restaurants to hastily eat sandwiches and gulp cups of coffee. At three o’clock, while New York works, wives crowd the avenues. They run around like small animals covered, regardless of the temperature, with cheap or expensive furs. They jam the gypsy tea rooms, smoke acres of cigarettes, and make lots of noise.

 

At five-thirty the prisoners exit again with lined, but hopeful faces, from the tall buildings. Free until the next morning, they run toward subways and buses. Gradually the business sections empty, the office buildings darken. The lights now shine in apartment house windows. It is nine p.m. and the city is cozy. Mothers are tucking future presidents into bed, and fathers are waiting to relate great things accomplished that day. On Broadway night life is throbbing. Crowds are pushing and talking in high, excited voices, eager for entertainment. Cabs are honking impatient demands for passengers and green lights. The moving electric signs entice groups of aimless pedestrians.

 

Midnight comes and subways offer empty seats, apartment houses are now black, and little factory boys and girls are going home with satisfied faces even after having lost at Bank Night Lottery. Cafe society is trying to pick out the best spot where they might be seen by the best people.

 

Two a.m. and the city is asleep, but the merrymakers at the Stork Club are still looking bored and wondering why they didn’t go to bed. They compromise by going to Reubens Deli or Longchamps. Dawn comes and at last New York is seen at its best. All is quiet, except for the clink of a milk bottle, the trot of a horse, or the merry song and staggered step of a last reveler. The tall buildings are outlined dimly against the grey sky. The streets lie in peaceful emptiness. A fog horn sounds from the Hudson. For one hour New York is superb it its mystery, and then alarm clocks start to ring and the spell is broken.

Peggy Stebbins, circa 1937

Cocktail Myths