I am a Minority

The Bluetooth: Life Line or Out of Line?

*The story below was submitted to the City Section of the New York Times. The pitch was accepted by my editor on a contingency basis, however she rejected the finished article because she didn't think it offered anything new. You be the judge.


A customer walked into a Brooklyn corner store to purchase a pack of gum. As he approached the register, he was twice called sweetheart by the clerk standing behind the counter. The customer froze for a moment until he realized the clerk was talking on his cell phone through a Bluetooth mobile phone headset—a five-minute phone conversation of 4,000 minutes he used that month.

The Bluetooth headset clips over the ear and functions as both an earpiece and receiver. The teardrop shaped device emits a flashing blue signal like a Christmas light. It is an ornament known to many for the awkward exchanges it inspires rather than its utility as a hands free mode of cell phone conversation.

But, for the men who work long hours in the City’s convenience stores and taxi cabs, it can be a life-line. The Bluetooth headset and other attachments like it allow them to catch up with their spouses, engage in remote parenting, and to be sure, talk about sports too.

But what then are they talking about, and to whom?

At the 5th Avenue Market in Park Slope, Brooklyn, Mohomed Ali, known to his regulars as Mojo, works seven nights a week at the 24-hour outpost and three days in receiving at a department store. Mr. Ali, half Yemeni; half Venezuelan, speaks English, Spanish, and Arabic. He carries on with his customers and callers in all three languages.

People call me when they want to talk, he said. “At three in the morning, if they can’t sleep they know I’m awake.” But, he cautioned against using two things at once. “It gets you into trouble.” You have to pay attention to customers, especially when counting out change, he said.

Taxi drivers surveyed in an informal poll estimated that at least three-quarters of their colleagues used a hands free device. Though The New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission outlawed their use, it could be considered the cabbies’ equivalent of jaywalking.

Even so, drivers remain cautious. On a recent Sunday at the Central Taxi Hold at Kennedy International Airport, among the hundreds of drivers who awaited dispatch, the right ear was the pronounced favorite for the attachment. This ear points inside the car, unseen from the driver’s side window.

Luis Almonte has driven a taxi since 1971, and been married to his wife for all of those years. For the last two have they communicated using the Bluetooth headset. Of the couples’ four children, his daughter calls him the most, his sons less so. ”I call my wife whenever I’m feeling lonely, or she is too,” he said.

Azzam Hesham said he prefers talking by speakerphone while driving his taxi. “The Bluetooth makes you look stupid,” he said. He suggested the product designers create a clip-on device that attaches to clothing like guests wear on television talk shows.

Sonu Singh, a driver for two years, said he uses the Bluetooth headset to stay alert on late night shifts, get directions, traffic reports, and avoid police activity. “It’s just another tool of the trade.”

Khasru Ahmed has driven a taxi for 21 years, and as an early adopter of the Bluetooth headset, began using it seven years ago. Mr. Ahmed said he likes the voice command feature for hands free dialing. He talks to everybody, he said. “I’m a very popular guy.”

Mr. Ali, at the 5th Avenue Market, would consider himself in good company. When asked if he had any significant others, he responded, “you can’t have just one.”

Though some of his relationships are more understanding than others, he said. “You have to take care of business. That comes first.” Others, he said, are less accepting of the arrangement.

Whatever the topic of conversation, the constant chatter may have more to do with its low cost than the need to stay connected. Most cell phone plans offer evening and weekend minutes free, and no one knows this better than night-shift workers.

Lost and Found on 42nd Street

The subway stops at 42nd Street and the train clears before its final stop at 57th.

I see a flash drive sitting on a nearby seat and call out to the exiting riders. Nobody claims it.

I’ve returned a lost wallet and had someone do the same for me when mine went missing.
And the Friday before, I had a similar flash drive melt so I was particularly keen to get this one back.

Though I am no spiritual woo woo, I believe in karma. I will always endeavor to return anything of value, even the lost and found prosthetic legs I’ve read about.

I take the flash drive to my desk and pop it in the computer. It’s filled with work files for Oxford University Press publications with 2009 release dates. I find one document that sheds some light: “Files for Myra.”

I call the receptionist and am transferred to Myra’s line. I leave a message.

She calls back minutes later. (One way to get your call returned promptly.)

I read her a list of the files on the flash drive. She says they’re important and that she will track down the owner. I give her my number.

I guy named Matt calls back 20 minutes later to claim it. “That’s odd,” he says, about as appreciative as someone who gets puddle-soaked by a passing car.

Would it have been less odd had I used it as a fishing lure?

He says he’ll send over a messenger.

I don’t want a reward, I’m not looking for recognition; I’m just doing a good deed (for once) and it would be nice to feel like I’m saving someone’s day.

A messenger calls my phone an hour later; English is not his first language. I take the elevator to the lobby to meet him. He’s not there. I head back upstairs five minutes poorer.

The messenger arrives an hour later and again I make the trip downstairs, this time for the handoff.

I never meet Matt and I never get a follow-up phone call saying thanks. The whole incident leaves me feeling like a nice guy. I want to fade back into anonymous New York and pretend I don’t hear Kitty Genovese.

To the people in my office though, I’m all right.

I’m done doing detective work for a while, but if you need help crossing the street, calling me a fine young man is reward enough.

A New York Life

My great aunt Helen ‘Chocha’ Kolassa was born in Manhattan in 1915. She grew up on the Lower East Side, on 2nd Street and Avenue A.

The family of six lived in a one-bedroom flat in a building filled with families new to the new world. I visited the Tenement Museum a few years ago and found the tour guide’s stories redundant. Chocha told them to me first.

She turned off the lights for the Orthodox Jewish families on the Sabbath; on sweaty summer nights they slept on the fire escape, for the breezes and the extra space it afforded.

In those days in downtown Manhattan, you made it if you made it out. When Chocha was 11 her family moved to Jamaica, Queens, where my mother was born and raised.

My grandmother and grandfather’s family lived in the upstairs half of a two family home, and my aunt and uncle lived downstairs. My Aunt Chocha and Uncle Eddie are siblings; I didn’t realize they weren’t married until my teens.

They lived in Jamaica for over 50 years. For 40 of those years, Chocha commuted to her job at Standard and Poors in lower Manhattan.

Jamaica was once a predominately Polish neighborhood. The only vestige of the old neighborhood as they knew it is the church, St. Joseph's, where Polish mass is still said every Sunday.

Crime in New York peaked in the 1980’s; Jamaica was no exception. When a bullet fired into the house lodged in the dining room wall, my grandfather played CSI with a yard stick, measuring the trajectory of the gun shot. Their trajectory was south Queens.

The family moved to a second two-family house in South Ozone Park near Kennedy Airport.

There was noise, but no crime. For all the glamour given to the mafia, there is one accepted truth: mob presence deters street crime, and brings fireworks. I remember watching John Gotti’s annual Fourth of July display through the upstairs window with my grandmother.

A few years after my family moved to South Ozone Park, a Puerto Rican family with Sandra Cepeda as the matriarch, moved next door.

As the first Latin family on the street they were met with trepidation by an overwhelmingly white neighborhood.

Chocha though, ushered them in. She was a neighborhood mentor who made them feel at home, at home. I never knew how much Chocha meant to Sandra and her family, but I knew how much she meant to my own.

I rarely saw Sandra, but I heard about her every time I saw my aunt. In later years, as a child of the Westchester suburbs, I moved to Brooklyn and would take the A train to visit Chocha, on a ride that took our family full circle back to the City.

Chocha died last week. She was 93. Four generations of my family paid our respects.

Sandra came with three generations of her family that had extended into the suburbs like my own. They did double duty at the wake, appearing for both the day and evening viewings; her family almost outnumbering ours at times.

Chocha, means aunt in Polish. Chocha didn’t have any children of her own, but she was an aunt to everyone.

She will be missed. God Bless.

The Street of Silver Lining

I hear that in New York, where many people don’t drive, your coat is like your car. I figure I must have a good one, so mine is Italian.

I have the coat for a couple of seasons, and I receive enough compliments to keep wearing it when it’s cold out.

But, wear and tear is inevitable, especially with me driving. Last year I have the lining repaired. I try to do this again this year, but I cannot find the proper material to match and the tear in the lining is too severe.

I decide to change the lining.

I once read that the comedian Robin Williams checks his coat at the sort of New York establishment that has a coat check. To the coat check girl, the jacket appears ordinary; however the lining is bright orange.

She notes that this hidden flamboyance is very suitable to his character. I say he looks off his trolley just by looking at him.

I do not presume to have hidden flamboyance, nor am I a comedian. I want a color that looks both plush and presentable. I go for blue.

It is my favorite color since I am a kid, mostly on account the Mets. Blue balances the coat’s grey herringbone pattern, and a feng shui master might say it is good for wealth cultivation.

I am told by the tailor I should fetch the fabric myself. This being New York, there is a street for this sort of mission: West 39th Street.

It is just blocks from the Ruby Tuesday’s in Times Square, but you are more likely to walk into a stray hubcap than a tourist on this block.

The needle points me in the right direction.

I walk into about 10 stores before I am exhausted and settle on a shade at Super Star Fabrics.

Each store I visit without exception is owned by Bangladeshis with African stock boys. They all seem quite happy to help me with my possible $12 purchase.

I think they day dream through the work-day on a constant sugar high of eye candy. Many of their customers are young women who work in the fashion industry or who attend school to make it there.

Raz at Super Star confirms he likes his job serving streams of attractive women.

They should do a commercial for color printers in his store.

I select a roll of fabric, Raz pulls out his scissors and shears off four yards, what the tailor tells me is needed for the lining.

Fashion and football do have one thing in common: yards.

I bring my jacket to the tailor on a Saturday afternoon and retrieve it later that day. I request an extra pocket. I am one for symmetry, therefore I will need two pockets.

The new coat fits perfect. I am happy, though my wallet goes on a diet.

The only problem, I’m like a guy who gets a new tattoo. I have to find a way to show it off. Any suggestions?

Carnegie Hall Underground

Everyone in New York knows you get to Carnegie Hall by practicing. At the 57th street subway station on Saturday afternoon, four men are doing just that.

There’s another way to get to Carnegie Hall: climb the steps.

At this subway stop, just below Carnegie Hall, there’s an alcove waiting area. It is sandwiched between the men’s and women’s bathrooms which are open at the whim of the attendant. These whims are generally not favorable.

The acoustics, however, are. It’s where the Doo-Wop groups from all over New York City convene to practice and perform, singing tunes of the 50’s and 60’s, from groups like the Platters, Coasters, and Drifters, some Sam Cooke, and a few gospel standards.

Purists call this music group harmony and it best describes what you hear.

The long-running WFUV radio program Group Harmony Review is hosted every Saturday night by Dan Romanello since the days when this music regularly tops the charts. It is where I first discover the music.

It is the sound of old school New York. And it reminds me of my Uncle Vinnie.

Doo-Wop is born and raised, and flourishes in post-war New York City. Its pop-chart prominence fades away about the time the Beatles play Shea Stadium in 1964.

It is one of the first music styles to break the color barrier. Salt and pepper groups form well before the Civil Rights movement takes off.

This group though consists of middle-aged black men from the 718 boroughs.

I run into Tomorraw on Saturday afternoon. They are singing in the waiting area, honing in on the harmonies, under the direction of Scout, the lead for the day.

I often see the groups after work on weekdays,

with no instruments necessary, acappella invites

spontaneity; the closest you’ll come to an instrument is a hand clap.

And a strong voice can trumpet louder than the instrument itself.

Acappella also allows for some unusual arrangements. Subway entry requires a precious metro card swipe, those who can't afford one, croon through the gates, harmonizing with the rest of the group that stands on the other side of the iron bars.

Last week I’m taking the N downtown from 57th Street. The train arrives, I sit down, and four of The Five Boroughs enter behind me.

One of group members interrupts the subway silence with an announcement aimed at his associate: "My man is having a very bad day," he says. "His girlfriend just dumps him."

And off they launch into a song about the wrongs of a relationship gone bad.

I’m not sure if it cheers up the besotted boyfriend, but it does plant smiles on our subway poker faces, and later the quartet I’m sure when they count their loot.

Almost Famous

On Saturday I visit a casting agency in Times Square. The offices are on Broadway, right above the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.

I am answering an ad on Craigslist for paid extras.

The agency is called Actor’s Rep. It’s one of these charm schools that charges 10% commission only after you get work.

It sounds straightforward and unfortunately legit.

I’m in for the interview. I sign my name and telephone number into the register and sit to watch a video about the agency.

The boss appears on screen, then a few folks gush about the gigs they land. The whole production has the whiff of an infomercial. (They provide bodies for that too.)

The assistant, Deanna, cuts the show short and invites me into her office overlooking Times Square.

I talk more than she does. This is always the case.

She tells me I will be good for Law & Order. I tell her my brother once has a speaking role on that very show. She tells me she is from Kansas. I resist the urge to quote a line from The Wizard of Oz. I am done making amusements so I proceed to read the monologue in front of me.

Beau:

Hadda take a break, my back, it’s startin’ to go. You too, huh? Yeah, it’s somethin’ all right. Really is. Hard to believe, huh? I mean who’d ever imagine. Couple a weeks ago, everything…so normal, right? Unbelievable! Couple a Sundays ago we had a barbeque. Kids playing Frisbee, dogs barkin’, franks on the fire. Some friends came over, couple of beers, nice. Just a couple of Sundays ago. Now………who knows?

I read the script with character, pausing for affect in all the right places I guess, because she tells me I make the cut. She is the filter for Richard, the owner. I am given his business card and told to call back at 11 a.m. the next day.

I am going to be famous.

I call back Monday morning and get Richard on the phone. He is waiting for my call. He tells me he’s going to send me on auditions. But, first I need headshots. He gives me a number of a photo agency and his direct line.

I ask another question and realize the line dies two sentences ago.

I call the photographer, get quoted $270 for a round of headshots, and call Richard back.

He says he’ll take off $50 from my first job for the photos.

I say let’s make a deal Richard. I’m in a bad place right now and you’re my ticket out. I’ll cash in my 401k and give you a cut of the pre-tax proceeds for your retainer.

I’ll sell my cd collection on ebay and use that to get acting and voice lessons.

That’s how serious I am Richard. But you gotta be with me here. We gotta make this happen together. We’re going all the way baby. You in?

He doesn’t hear any of this because he hangs up two minutes ago.

The man perfects the art of the swift and silent hang up.

Too bad, I coulda been a star.

The place is like show business; there’s no business, for me.