The Bronx was spiraling toward disaster in those years, and this teenaged cleaning crew wanted to make it better. This touched people in the Bronx, because their borough was fast becoming a punch line for urban ruin. As the Yankees battled the Dodgers in the 1977 World Series, fires broke out on the Bronx skyline. Howard Cosell’s plaintive wail of, "The Bronx is burning, the Bronx is burning," pretty much summed up where things were.

But arson and dirty streets weren’t the only problems. The NYPD faced severe budget cuts, and the remaining cops were a dispirited bunch. A lot of the cops were just doing time until they could get their 20 years and retire, so they seemed happy to sit on their asses and let muggers freely work their trade on the subways and the streets. Most of the cops, after all, lived in Rockland and didn’t care about us animals.

Back then, few Bronxites even bothered to dial 911 when trouble jumped off. We took care of it on our own. Unfortunately, a lot of times that backfired, and it was common to hear about working stiffs being gunned down for their paychecks. If you weren’t young, strong or crazy, you just didn’t go out after dark.

To combat this, Rock and his 12 biggest street sweepers formed a civilian patrol group to fight crime in the streets and subways. They called themselves the Magnificent 13, and on Feb. 13, 1979, they boarded the 4 train–then known as the Mugger Express–to begin their own patrol. Cleaning streets was one thing, but a vigilante patrol didn’t play as well, and the group was looked upon with suspicion.

When these cats started their subway forays, me and my friends–a mixed bag of whites, blacks and Latinos–thought Rock and his merry band were a bunch of well-intentioned boneheads. These 13 do-gooders were seen as a bunch of wannabe cops–squares not to be taken seriously.

In those days, the last car of the 4 train was reserved for potheads and drunks. The transit cops and the heads had an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t patrol the rear car if the mayhem would stay back there. (In a city where you can no longer smoke a cigarette in a bar, it’s hard to imagine that there was once a designated pot-smoking car on the subway.) The only problem was that no one told Rock or the Magnificent 13 about the deal. They’d come into the last car, cough from the fumes and shoot you a hard look. In return, we’d goof on them. No one put out the pot.

Who the hell were these fools in their t-shirts and berets?

By 1980, the Magnificent 13 had morphed into the Guardian Angels, and Curtis Sliwa, aka Rock, became a media sensation. We still thought they were a bunch of squares, but deep down even the biggest Bronx pothead admired the Angels’ courage for riding subways unarmed and having the balls to confront the criminals of New York.

The Bronx of 1978 is gone now, and good riddance, but the Guardian Angels are still around. Now a radio-show host, Curtis Sliwa has ridden that red beret for all it’s worth.

The Guardian Angels office on 8th Ave. is in a walk-up in the middle of the block. On the door, a sign warns visitors that it’s under 24-hour surveillance. At the top of a seedy staircase, I was met by two Angels in full-patrol regalia. A ponytailed white guy asked a Latino man if he wanted me searched. I told them I came in peace; I was there to write a story. The Latino man, 27-year-old Jose Gonzales from Brooklyn, told me that everyone gets searched–even Sliwa himself.

In the front room of the threadbare office, two young kids were doing their homework under the supervision of an Angel. In the back is a work-out room where the patrol boys stay in fighting shape. On the wall behind a glass frame are t-shirts from the long forgotten Rock Brigade, The Magnificent 13 and the ever-present Guardian Angels.

"Every year we still go up to that McDonald’s on Fordham Rd. where this started," Gonzales told me, "but I bet most of the kids that come for the programs don’t realize why we are there or the history of it."

I asked Gonzales how many Angels there are in New York.

"We put an emphasis on school, and the majority of our members are 16 to 18, so during the winter we have only 80 to 100 or so. I don’t have exact numbers, but once the summer comes we’re like 1000 strong."

And what of the ancillary project known as the Junior Guardian Angels?

"It’s like a Big Brother program. We check on the kids’ schoolwork and make sure that their grades are good. We take them on weekend trips and let them train with martial arts."

Why did Gonzales join?

"I did it at first because I wanted to get free martial arts training. But after about a month or two you really want to help people. It rubs off on you. I was in a park near here checking the ground for drug paraphernalia. I was pulling a syringe out of the grass, and I felt someone tugging at me. I thought it might be a junkie mad that I had found his stash. It was a kid, and he looked up at me and said, ‘Thank you.’ That touched me, and I wanted to help kids. And I have."

Tony Johnson is a fine clerk in the New York City court system and was a Guardian Angel back in the early 80s when he and the group were both relatively young.

"I was in high school when I joined. I did it for two years, from 16 to 18. By my senior year in high school I had my own patrol."

Like Gonzales, he got involved because of his interest in martial arts and a desire to help others.

"I was mugged on Fulton St., and a thousand people walked past and saw it and no one stopped to help me. I got away, but it bothered me that no one would stop. I always had a problem with people being robbed. People work hard for what little they get, and that shouldn’t be taken away from them. It’s wrong. Poor blacks robbing other poor blacks. No one should rob anyone, but I felt here we were all black and all poor and we are stealing, robbing and hurting ourselves."

Johnson and his crew hit the subways for two- to three-hour patrols. One night, he and a few other Angels got into a brawl with a knife-wielding gang of Puerto Rican guys.

"I was fighting with a guy and he was lashing at me with his knife. He tore my shirt to shreds but I got out of it."

Soon the danger got to be too much. Later, a few Angels were shot, and Johnson’s mother begged him to quit. He did.

"We did a lot to prevent crime. We made good citizens feel better that someone was out there watching their backs."

There are now 25 other U.S. and Canadian chapters and six in foreign countries. They also have Cyber-Angels that have been patrolling the net for pervs since 1998. As a talk-show host and media figure, Curtis Sliwa may have done well financially from the organization, but he’s given back. Forgotten are the killjoys who didn’t want pot-smoking on the 4 train. Forgotten are the taunts about the matching t-shirts and berets. Twenty-four years ago, Sliwa created an organization that has helped more kids than most, and his legacy is strong.

Sixty years before O.J. Simpson’s "Trial of the Century," there was the Lindbergh kidnapping case. Both the crime and subsequent trial took place in New Jersey, but the Bronx played a starring role in the drama: A small fortune from the Lindbergh ransom money went missing and may still be buried there. No one seems to be looking for the hidden treasure, but some are afraid that they might start.

In 1927, Charles Lindbergh became America’s Hero after making aviation history as the first solo trans-Atlantic pilot. Then in 1930, he and his wife, writer Anne Morrow Lindbergh, became America’s darlings when their first baby was born. Charles Lindbergh, Jr. was the blessed progeny, the "fat lamb," as his mother called him–a cute, towheaded toddler. Everyone wanted a peek at the little guy.

Someone wanted more. On March 1, 1932, Charles Jr. was snatched from his crib in Hopewell, NJ. That same night, the Lindberghs received a ransom note demanding $50,000 dollars for the safe return of their child.

Unemployment reached 25 percent at the height of the Depression, and kidnapping, not yet a federal crime, was a quick and easy way for thugs to make a lot of money. Many a wealthy man–or member of a wealthy man’s family–was held for ransom in the 1930s, and no one was the wiser. Most families, believing that silence was the way to go, kept quiet. Kidnapping the rich became the home invasion of its day.

Lindbergh, however, didn’t keep silent. The report of the kidnapping created a frenzy. All cars entering or leaving New York City were stopped and searched. Col. H. Norman Schwarzkopf (father of the Gulf War general) led the N.J. State Police in their search, while Lindbergh himself was allowed to lead the actual investigation–a foolish choice given the stress and worry the man was under.

A few days after the kidnapping, a 71-year-old Bronx school principal, Dr. John "Jafsie" Condon, wrote a letter to the Bronx Home News (circulation 150,000) offering to act as an intermediary for Lindbergh and the kidnappers. He even offered to throw in an extra $1,000 of his own money. Condon was known as a blustery neighborhood character that no one took seriously–except, for some reason, Lindbergh and the kidnappers.

On March 12, 1932, Condon and Lindbergh–with no police following, as per Lindbergh’s order–drove to 233rd St. and Jerome Ave. in the Bronx. They parked by the gates of Woodlawn Cemetery, and Condon met a man wearing a fedora and a handkerchief over his face. Details of the exchange were made clear, and on the night of April 2, 1932, Condon and Lindbergh headed back to the Bronx to meet with the same man, who became known as Graveyard John. Condon handed over $50,000 in gold certificates. With Lindbergh’s knowledge, an FBI agent had secretly recorded the serial numbers of the notes.

Graveyard John took the money and told Condon that the baby could be found on a boat. Graveyard John then walked off into the nearby woods, and Lindbergh sent out a posse in search of his child. There was no boat or baby. On May 12, 1932, the Lindbergh baby was found dead in the woods near his Hopewell, NJ, house. Animals had eaten away at the corpse, yet Charles Lindbergh stood over the body and declared it to be his son.

John "Jafsie" Condon became an immediate suspect and was vilified. Not one to duck a fight, Condon fought back and said he was still in touch with the kidnappers and he would solve the crime.

I recently stood outside of Condon’s Decatur Ave. home. On a block that’s seen better days, the old Victorian stands out. It’s clearly been kept up. I rang the bell, and an elderly gentleman by the name of John Machalski shuffled onto the porch to talk. Machalski laughed when I brought up the name of Jafsie.

"Fifty-five years ago, I bought this house from his sons. It was a nice neighborhood then. Now…" He looked around and shrugged.

Machalski told me that every so often a tour bus will stop in front of his house and dozens of people will walk onto his property.

"They make some mess," he said.

Machalski walked with me on the wooden porch and showed me an old shed in the backyard.

"That was Condon’s music room. He was a violinist, and he went back there to play. Maybe he was so bad no one wanted to hear him."

I told Machalski that more than $30,000 of the Lindbergh ransom money is still missing. He laughed again.

"For years, my neighbor, a dentist, used to see me out working in the garden and he would ask if I had found the money yet. I never did, but I don’t want people coming out here looking for it. It’s not here."

From April 1932 to September 1934, $5,000 of the ransom money was spent in stores, gas stations and movie theaters in and around the New York area. In September of 1934, the police were tipped off that a Bronx man named Bruno Hauptmann had spent some of the Lindbergh gold certificates. Authorities searched the house and found $14,600 of the Lindbergh money hidden there.

Hauptmann claimed innocence, but he looked like he was guilty of something. He was a bread thief from Germany, and his trial was a circus. People paid $500 to get a seat in the New Jersey courthouse. Hauptmann was defended by an elderly drunk who was two years away from an insane asylum. He took the stand in his own defense and claimed that a friend of his named Fisch had asked him to hold the money while he went back to Germany. Fisch died, and Hauptmann reasoned that the money was his to spend. Neither the prosecutors nor Hauptmann could answer for the rest of the money, nor could they identify anyone else involved in the kidnapping. Hauptmann was held up as the guilty party.

While the jury was deliberating, crowds outside the courthouse chanted, "Kill Hauptmann… Kill Hauptmann." And that they did. Hauptmann was found guilty, and at 8:47 p.m. on April 3, 1936, in Trenton, NJ, Bruno Hauptmann was electrocuted.

Hauptmann’s old house sits in the far reaches of the east Bronx, in a forgotten neighborhood of one-family homes. No one walks around this part of the Bronx, but not because of crime. Rather because it’s more of a dingy suburb than part of the city.

A locked, chain-link fence guards the cape house where Hauptmann once kept his stash. A sign warns visitors to "Beware of Dog," and the mailbox by the front door is padlocked. Around back is the shed where Hauptmann once plied his trade as a carpenter. There were two cars in the driveway and the lights on the first floor were on, so I went back in, banged on the fence and yelled out.

A beefy man with a gray crew cut and leering scowl stuck his head out of the door and asked what I wanted.

"I’m sorry to bother you," I started, "but did you know that this house was once owned by a kidnapper named Hauptmann?"

"Yeah, I know all about that."

"Did you know that $30,000 of the ransom money is still missing?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, I’m not the owner."

"Have you ever looked for the money?"

"No, but others have. Maybe they found it."

With that he ducked back inside and bolted his door.

I stood there for a minute, looking at the house. I wondered: Where is the rest of that money?

It might not have been much, but those menial jobs from the rag trade fueled the economic engines of the poorer neighborhoods throughout the city. No one but the owners made a fortune, but many a lawyer and doctor was put through school because of the hard work of their parents toiling down in the Garment Center.

Jews, Italians and Irish manned the Garment Center in the early days. African-Americans, Jamaicans and Latinos joined later. The heyday for the center was in the 1920s. To bolster this booming industry, special lofts were built to provide workspace for the tailors, pressers, sewers and deliverymen who would bang around New York with garment carts—and God help all who got in their way. At its peak, 500,000 people were employed in clothing manufacture in the area which—loosely defined—went from 25th and 40th Sts. between 5th and 9th Aves. By 1931, New York’s garment center boasted the largest district of apparel manufacture in America.

The boom continued into the 1970s. I recently talked with Pat Fenton, a retired court clerk and writer, who worked down in the Garment Center in the 1960s.

"I was an 18-year-old kid—a dropout and hanging out with a South Brooklyn gang called The Jokers. I liked working outside, and that’s how I wound up pushing box trucks down 7th Ave. At work, I would daydream about the weekend of drinking, juke boxes and slow dancing with women.

"At the end of the day, you would see rough-ass-looking black guys from Bed Stuy eating roasted sweet potatoes out of their hands from a street vendor on 7th Ave. Standing right next to them would be tough Irish and Italian kids knocking off from work. We all had a respect for each other for the hard work we did. There was no time clock in the Garment Center. You started around eight, and whatever you had to deliver that day, you delivered. If it took you 12 hours—and sometimes it did—you weren’t paid any extra money. There was no such word as ‘overtime’ down there.

"We all looked at it as a job we were passing through. Something to do until a better job came along. The Garment Center was the stopping-off place for the lost and tough Irish, Italian and black street kids. And I’ll tell you, it was the most honest, hardest work I ever did, and I’m proud I was able to do it."

By the 1980s, the industry was in decline, but New York saw fit to honor its past. In 1984, on 7th Ave. and 39th St., a bronze statue was erected to honor the workers of the Garment Center. "The Garment Worker" by Judith Wheeler is a bronze sculpture of an old Jewish man working a sewing machine. His gnarled hands operate the apparatus, but his unsmiling face tells the true story of the brutality of the work.

The Garment Center now employs 100,000 workers, and every year that goes down. New York 2003 could use a new Garment Center—a place where young, unskilled people could find work. The Dec. 2002 unemployment figures tell us that there are at least 200,000 men between the ages of 16-24 lounging around New York City street corners. Their unemployment rate is listed at 12% (8% for the rest of the population), but spend anytime in the Bronx and those numbers seem low-ball. It feels more like 25%.

But it’s a little late in the day for that. The Garment Center has now been renamed The Fashion District, and young ruffians need not apply. The buildings in the Garment Center are now being turned into high-end residential lofts. The rag trade has moved—Chinatown, small towns in New Jersey and Queens have picked up the business. Now, the old storefront sweatshops have morphed into retail/wholesale clothing stores, and the sight of a garment worker pushing a cart—once ubiquitous—is rare. I spent a few hours walking the district and saw four carts being pushed about. The strong backs are working elsewhere.

It has been said that every 25 years, New York changes. Nowhere is that more true than in the Garment Center. In the late 70s, I worked as the parking valet at Al Cooper’s Restaurant. The steakhouse was on 36th St. between Broadway and 7th; it was a dirty block dedicated to the rag trade. Cooper was a short, brutal man who knew how to play to the bosses of all the clothing firms. The place was the Ben Benson’s of its time. Al Cooper’s Steakhouse at 128 W. 36th St. is now Melange, with a sign that reads, "Closing Out Inventory $5, $30."

I walked down the new and improved W. 36th St., where the new stores are much cleaner and seemingly more user-friendly than the old shops. But go into one of these so-called stores and buyer beware. None of the clothing has a price tag, and if you ask too many questions, you’ll be told that it’s all wholesale and that you have no business there. From what I could observe, Latinos hold the lower-level jobs and the Russians seem to be running the show.

When I worked the door at Al Cooper’s, I became friendly with a garment worker who went by the name of Stevie the Mule. His fellow workers called him the mule because he could push three racks of clothes and never take a step back. Stevie was a young kid like myself. We lived in the same neighborhood and both had a taste for reefer. After work we would hang out on W. 36th St. and light up and talk about how fucked up New York was. This was the late 70s.

Once in a while, Steve would invite me home to eat dinner with his "baby’s mother" and daughter. We’d hang out on the fire escape watching the Bronx night while Mrs. Mule cooked up some rice and beans. Here was a young man, sans high school diploma and without work history, who was able to support a small family because he had a strong back and the willingness to use it. I imagine 20-year-old Stevie would be flipping burgers or dealing pot today. In 2003, we don’t offer New York City’s youth many opportunities, yet we wonder why they join the Bloods or end up in jail.

A cold wind hit me as I walked up 36th St., and I wondered whatever happened to Stevie the Mule. As I turned on Broadway, I saw a middle-aged black man pushing a cart. He had a long face and the same sad eyes that Stevie the Mule had. I watched him and I swore that if someone did a computer age-generated portrait of Stevie, this was how he would look twenty years later. I followed the man as he pushed an empty rack, and as I got closer I said, "Stevie?"

Not even a flinch. He kept walking.

In a louder voice, I tried again. "Stevie… Stevie the Mule…?"

He kept walking, but I thought I’d seen him flinch at the second part of the greeting. I decided to walk away. Maybe it was him. Maybe he never got out. And maybe he didn’t want anyone to know.

I got big plans for revenge for this new year. I’m not talking 2003 resolutions here. This plot is much more base and primal. This year I am going to kill off Santa Claus. Exterminate him like one of the old gods of the Roman Empire.

There’s a back story to this rage. Two weeks before Christmas my wife became ill. She needed an operation and she would be in the hospital for at least a week. Apart from the worry about her health, our world was turned upside down trying to care for our five-year-old twin girls. I decided to play it like everything was all right: like I lied to the girls about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Mets having a chance at winning a pennant, I lied to them about their mother. All they knew was that Mama had a boo-boo and would be home soon. You have five-year-olds, you feel the preciousness of life and how it all goes by so fast. I want to keep my progeny innocent for as long as I can. If they have a problem with that, they can take it up with me when they get older. If you have a problem with lying to children, mind your own business and do what you need to do with your own.

So on the Monday before Christmas I decided to take the kids to see Santa Claus at the Cross County Shopping Center in Yonkers. Cross County is one of the country’s oldest malls. It was opened after World War II and spawned the ruination of small stores everywhere.

Now, I really dislike malls. But Cross County has an actual outdoor mall where you can stroll. It’s as bucolic as a shopping center can be. And they have a small booth at the end of the mall where you can see Santa Claus.

So far so good. The kids are happy as we walk along, then they squeal with excitement when they see the little hut that is Santa’s hangout. I spied the Santa and had a good feeling. He was perfect: old—but not too old, fat—but not too fat. He had a real white beard and bushy white eyebrows. As I looked at him I would have bet that his belly moved like jelly. After a few minutes the kids and I were led into a hut by one of Santa’s huckster elves—he looked like he could be an extra on The Sopranos.

The elf showed me some frames for the picture he would take of my girls with Santa. He winked at me and said, "Hey, you got some cute kids there, Chief. So right here we got our Santa Special."

That frame cost $25. I asked about one that had kid-like crayon drawings on it saying: "We Love You Mommy!" The elf told me that was a mere $15, so I gave him the gelt and he led my kids to Santa’s lap.

"Come on, kids, don’t be afraid. Santa doesn’t bite," Santa said.

Something bad clicked in my head. It was Santa’s voice that threw me. Everything else about the guy was great, but that voice. He sounded like the crabby old man on the block who was always yelling at kids and making their lives miserable.

But I’d come this far so I went with it. Once I give my kids the nod—the one that lets them know that all is cool and Big Daddy is watching—they have no fear of strangers. They both jumped up on Santa’s lap.

Santa rocked back and said, "This is quite a load for Santa."

Now this guy’s voice was starting to really piss me off. My kids are of normal weight, and anyway, this fat bastard had invited them to jump up. You tell a kid to do something and then they do it, you got to deal with it.

Santa got his balance and the kids looked at the elf as he focused the camera. They gave a big smile and the elf got the shot. Then I heard Santa say, "So, girls, why don’t you tell me what you want me to bring you for Christmas."

My kids are not spoiled. They have simple wants. "I want a bugle," my one daughter said.

Santa got a sour look on his face and said, "Oh, no, Santa doesn’t bring any toys that make noise. No noisy toys. No no. Just like Santa never brings anyone a puppy. Someone else will have to get you that bugle. Now what else do you want?"

My daughter sat in Santa’s lap with her mouth open. She had written this guy a letter to get a bugle. Her daddy had sent that letter to the North Pole and promised that Santa would bring it to her. Her eyes looked like her five-year-old world was crashing down on her.

I shot a look at Santa and told my child, "Don’t worry, sweetheart, Santa’s just kidding."

"Oh no I’m not. I don’t bring toys that make noise. How about a doll?"

The only reason I didn’t throttle this guy was I didn’t want my daughters to suffer the trauma of seeing their father kill Santa Claus.

"She’ll get the bugle," I said.

Santa seemed to get the message and turned his attention to my other girl. With forced glee he asked, "And what would you like for Christmas?"

My daughter looked at her twin with apprehension, and then quietly said, "A drum."

"I didn’t hear you," Santa said.

"I want a drum."

"Didn’t you hear what I just told your sister? Santa doesn’t bring toys that make noise. So how about a doll?"

"She’ll get the drum from you, Santa. She knows you’re just kidding, right?"

This lunatic stared at me like I had just cursed his mother. He looked like he was about to yell out, There will be no noisy toys!, which might have led to violence, but the elf saved the day. He told me the frame was ready, so I grabbed my kids’ hands, snatched the photo and got out of that booth of evil.

As we walked into the cold air my daughter asked, "Daddy, why did Santa say he won’t bring me a drum?"

One of the dirty jobs of being a parent is explaining other people’s stupidity. "Ah, he was just kidding. He wants you to be surprised is all."

Soon my wife got out of the hospital and began feeling better. My daughters got their drum and bugle, and we had a great Christmas listening to wonderful but badly played music. It was loud, and I loved every minute of it. Later, as I drank a cognac toasting Christmas, I began plotting my plan of evil.

When the weather warms up I’m going to find out just where that Santa lives. I’m going to take my kids with their drum and bugle and drive to his house. Then we’re going to have a parade up and down his street, playing as loud and as long as we can. And come next Christmas I’m going to kill the fat bastard off. I’m telling them there ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus.

On a side
street I spot a gypsy cab under the shade of a poplar tree. The driver, Frank
Hedrick, sits and eats his lunch. Hedrick is old-school Queens. Pushing 50 and
tired of being a hack. I ask him if he’s courting trouble parked on a private
street.

"Nah,
they only bother you if you park the car and leave. Then they’ll throw
a boot on it and it’ll cost you $125 for them to remove it. Nice racket
if you can get it. I’m harmless. The security guards won’t bother
with me."

I ask Hedrick
for his impressions of Forest Hills Gardens. He puts down his sandwich and takes
a swig of soda.

"I
guess this is one of the last of the exclusive neighborhoods in Queens. This
borough used to be nice. Around here it’s still good, but the problem with
living in this private community is all the shit that’s around it. I mean
Queens ain’t America anymore. You’re lucky if they speak English here.
And they might be hardworking people, but they make a mess. Where I live [Richmond
Hill] they rent out every floor and no one takes care of the homes."

Forest Hills
Gardens is comprised of 880 private homes and at least 10 apartment buildings
that house about 6000 people. Real estate is hot here; a house can fetch anywhere
from $500,000 to $3 million. Margaret Olivia Slocum Sage incorporated the 142-acre
neighborhood in 1909. She was left a fortune by her husband, Russell, and with
her lawyers set up a private community in New York to show the rest of the rabble
how decent people could live in a crowded city. Fredrick Law Olmsted, Central
Park’s designer, put together the plan for the community; one of the stipulations
for owning a home here, still in effect, is that you cannot radically alter
the exterior of the house.

But time
is catching up with Forest Hills Gardens. I pass an abandoned restaurant called
the Melting Pot. The awning reads A Fondue Restaurant–a lost logo
from more affluent days. The streets are empty but for a few dark nannies and
nurses pushing lightskinned babies in buggies and a crinkly old man in a wheelchair.

Farther
into the community there’s a village green lined with massive trees. A
bronze and marble memorial off to the side is dedicated to the soldiers who
fought "in the Great War." A soaring flagpole stands at the end of
the green with a plaque that reads: "This towering spar was the main mast
of the yacht Columbia when it defeated the Shamrock I in 1899
and the Shamrock II in 1901 in defense of America’s Cup."

I walk down
Slocum Crescent, impressed with the huge brick colonial and Tudor homes. Old-fashioned
wrought-iron streetlamps line the pristine sidewalks. Huge willow trees hang
over manicured lawns. In here the clatter and hum of Queens cannot be heard.
The song of this burg is chirping birds and power mowers. The only thing missing
is people. These are the emptiest sidewalks in New York.

I turn down
Tennis Pl. and the homes get even larger. Lush lawns are holding up well during
the summer heatwave. Colorful pansies fill gardens. The driveways have Saabs,
BMWs and Mercedeses in them. I pass the tennis club that was once home to the
U.S. Open. Now middle-aged women jump out of luxury cars in tennis whites to
play a few sets. I turn onto Burns St., near the site of a 1977 Son of Sam killing,
and spot a mailman who will only give his name as Mike. I ask him if the streets
are always so quiet.

"Pretty
much. Everyone stays inside here. Keep to themselves, I guess. These homes…these
beautiful homes are huge. I mean you could fit two, three of mine in them. The
shame of it is that these mansions have like one person living in them. One
person in 20 rooms. It’s usually old ladies…widowed…everyone
gone. I’ll put the mail in the box and sometimes see them like little ghosts
behind the curtains. They wait till I leave."

I ask Mike
if that annoys him. He looks up at nothing and says, "No…it’s
just kind of sad is all. Like they all got left behind and they don’t want
no one to see them. See how alone they are."