My evening actually started while I was waiting to use the copy machine at work. Work was the Social Security Brooklyn District Office at Borough Hall. The time was about 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, springtime in 1975. I was a Claims Representative, interviewing people receiving benefits under the Supple Security Income program. The SSI program was new and, like many new government programs, there was much confusion causing lengthy and many interviews for us Claims Reps.
The Social Security Administration hired new employees to handle the increase workload. I was one of the new hires in the Borough Hall District Office. The office was one of the largest in the country; only the ones in Manhattan and LA were larger. At the beginning of each month, when people received their checks, the police maintained lines just to enter our office.
Many of my coworkers and new friends were also recent hires, just out of college in their early or mid-twenties. I was about ten years older, finishing my college education after serving seven years in the Navy. I was considered the "Old Man" in the SSI unit.
Because there were many documents, such as birth, marriage, and death certificates, that were required for most interviews, the lines for the few copy machines were long and moved slowly. The conversation around the copy machine was mostly about plans for the weekend. Plans were to "go out to the island" or to "go upstate" which basically meant that my coworkers who lived in the city were getting out for the weekend.
My plans for the weekend were going into the city. I was going to work overtime on Saturday and maybe even Sunday.
Someone on the line said, "How about after work. I could sure use a drink."
Others quickly murmured "me too" and "sounds good to me." Soon we were discussing where we should meet.
Someone said "McSorley's" and several said "okay." There were a few objections from some of the young women on line, "But McSorley's has only the one small bathroom."
McSorley's is an Irish pub, established in 1854, located in lower Manhattan that recently had become "coed" in 1970 after a lawsuit was filed. It was only a few subway stops from the office.
But the young ladies were easily convinced by the guys.
"Don't you want to be liberated?"
"Don't you want to strike a blow for equal rights?"
"Don't worry! We'll all wait on line together at McSorley's!"
It was agreed: "McSorley's after work!" After each of us finished making our copies we went back to our units and spread the word to our desk-neighbors about "Going for drinks at McSorley's after work."
A little after five, I left the office with several others, taking the subway on the short, but crowded, ride into Manhattan. It was a several blocks walking to McSorley's.
McSorley's is exactly what I pictured an old Irish pub to be. It was dark, walls covered with old pictures and front pages of newspapers, wood tables and chairs, and people drinking beer and ale from frosted mugs.
We were among the first there, but by six o'clock there were more than twenty people from our office. We were mixed group with more guys than girls. Most of us were stag but there were also couples, the result of office romances. We were broken up into small groups, some at the bar, some around tables, and some were waiting on line to use the one and only bathroom. We drank. We talked. We laughed.
The happy hour talk was mostly about the people we interviewed during the week.
"When I asked if she had the death certificate, she handed me a tag with her brother's name on. It took me a moment to realize that it was a toe tag from the morgue. I shrieked and dropped it."
"He handed me an envelope with all his records. When I pulled out his discharge orders, a cockroach crawled out. I pretended not to see it. He's a Korea War veteran. I really felt sorry for him. But he's an alcoholic. He'll be sleeping with cockroaches the rest of his life."
"Her first name was Bridget. She was in her eighties. When I asked for her maiden name and her married name, she said, 'Murphy. O'Reilly.' Then she added, 'The first was by birth, the second was by mistake!' She had a devil of a smile. Beautiful eyes! I hope I'm that sharp when I'm in my eighties."
About 6:30 some of our gang started to leave. Most of them were married, going home to spouses and kids. Two couples said that they were going out to dinner and asked if anyone wanted to join them. About a dozen of us said yes, and we decided on Italian and quickly selected a restaurant.
After dinner it was dark and after eight o'clock. Several people headed home, while someone suggested a movie. Nine of us headed uptown on the subway discussing the movies that were currently playing and who wanted to see what. By time we got off the train the movie was selected and we walked several blocks to the theater.
After the movies a few more people left for home, while someone mentioned a nightcap. A restaurant with a cozy bar on Central Park South was decided upon. Six of us, two couples, me and another single guy headed north, taking the subway again.
It was a beautiful night and once in the bar we were seated near a window with a view of Central Park across the street. Since I had several beers at McSorley's and wine for dinner, I ordered a Beefeater martini as my nightcap. Our conversation was now about the movie, and then moved on to politics and current events.
We were having a great time: enjoying the view and enjoying the camaraderie. But the evening had to come to an end. We were now the only customers left and the bartender was making noises, signaling that he wanted to go home. It was now almost one, Saturday morning.
We said our final goodbyes outside the restaurant. One couple and the other single guy decided to share a cab to Queens. The other couple had an apartment on the Upper Westside and chose to walk to Columbus Circle to catch the subway uptown.
I needed to take the subway downtown to Penn Station to take the Long Island Railroad to Freeport where I lived. The subway station was only two blocks away, but now I was alone. I knew that I had to be aware of my surroundings.
Once down in the station, it seemed darker than it did above ground. Maybe the station was just grimier with more shadows. There was also graffiti, on the walls, columns, and even the turnstiles. The graffiti was not just works of art; they were gang warnings; territories being marked off. The platform was empty, and I was now completely alone.
Luckily a train came quickly. I got on and took a seat with its back against the bulkhead so that that no one could get behind me; I was facing the length of the train car. As soon as I sat down, I put on my "subway face." I looked straight ahead, not focused on anything but aware of everything.
There were only several other people in the car. On my left there were five guys in their twenties. They were setting on a bench that ran lengthwise along the middle of the car. I assumed they were Puerto Rican; they were speaking Spanish. This was the 1970s, before the term Hispanic was widely used and when most Latin Americans who live in New York City were Puerto Ricans. They were dress in work clothes and work boots. I thought that they were some type of construction workers.
Across from them was a black man sitting by himself. He was about thirty years old and well built and well dressed. He wore dress shoes, tapered pants, and a zippered leather jacket - all in black. He was reading a newspaper.
I noted all this before the train left the station. It was only three stops to Penn Station - a short ride.
Once the train started moving the Puerto Ricans continued talking in Spanish, usually with more than one speaking at the same time. They were laughing, motioning with their hands, and talking more loudly than before. I assumed that they were telling jokes. I noticed that from time to time one or two of the guys would nod towards the black guy and say something.
The black man continued reading his paper; I continued looking forward in my blank subway face.
The train stopped; no one got off and no one came into our car. The train pulled out and I only had two more stops.
The Puerto Ricans continued with their loud talking and laughing. Then I noticed the black guy put down his newspaper, stare directly at the Puerto Rican sitting in front of him, and then say something in Spanish.
The Puerto Ricans froze. There was no talking. No laughter. No hand beckoning. For the moment I didn't even hear the click-clack of the subway train. There was complete silence. I thought, "Just two more stops to Penn Station."
Again, at the next stop no one got on and no one got off. The Puerto Ricans remained silent, the black man remained staring directly at the Puerto Rican opposite him, and I remained hidden (hopefully) behind my subway face and thinking, "Next stop, Penn Station."
Soon the train started to slow down for Penn Station. I got up and stood by the door, ready to make a hasty exit.
The black man got up, walked to the same exit door, and stood beside me. When the train stopped, but before the doors opened, he unzipped his jacket. The black guy then said very quietly so that I was the only one who could hear him, "If they follow me, I'm going to blow their fucking heads off."
I took this as a warning for me and considered it as a kind gesture. I simply said softly, "Thank you."
As soon as the train doors opened, I went to my right towards the Long Island railroad station - walking as fast as I can without actually running. The black man went left to a street exit. Luckily the Puerto Ricans stayed on the train and no heads were blown off.
Like many events observed in life this episode has a few mysteries that I know I will never solve.
The first is what were the Puerto Ricans saying? It must have been awful because of their reaction when they realized that black man understood Spanish. In addition, the black man was even willing to blow off their heads if they followed him. The words must have been very horrific indeed.
One thing that is not a mystery to me is: If the black guy really had a gun? I had no doubt that he had one. There was no other reason for him to unzip his jacket and state that he was going to blow their heads off. He wasn't showing bravado; he was stating a fact. He had no need to impress me.
The big mystery for me is who was the black guy? Maybe a cop? Maybe a bad guy? Or maybe just a gun-toting New Yorker?
But whoever he was I am forever grateful to the warning he gave me. I'm also very grateful that no heads were blown off.