The most likely place to be injured, or even killed, in the Bagel is the sidewalk, any sidewalk, where bikes and scooters have free rein to mow down the old, the infirm and those unable to perform life-saving, matador-like avoidance moves. Yep, marauding bikers use the sidewalks of New York to beat the traffic and intimidate people, and have managed to impose their illegal presence there as a beleaguered police force turn a blind eye.
It all started under the last mayor of the Bagel, one so bad that I dare not mention his name in the elegant pages of The Speccie. And it continues — but even more so — under the present mayor, a nice but incompetent ex-cop. A total disregard for the law is now acceptable, with bikers openly performing glissandos past very fat and short traffic wardens who pretend not to see them as they mow down walkers.
As I walk everywhere in the city and use a car on only rare occasions, I am a daily witness to this outrage. After some narrow escapes, I have loudly remonstrated with the bully ruffians, eliciting an intriguing elision of “mthfkr” and other such elegant responses. Dripping with attitude, bikers and scooter-riders are terrorizing mostly the very old, who can remember the time when walking on a sidewalk almost guaranteed a safe arrival.
Actually, I gave up long ago on bike-free sidewalks, but I try to point out to leisure riders that biking on the walking paths of Central Park is strictly a no-no. There are signs everywhere saying “dismount and walk”, which everyone ignores and most riders don’t seem to understand. “Dismount” is too hoity-toity a word. A much better understood and more likely to be obeyed caution would be “Get off your bike, you asshole.” The most dangerous of all kamikazes are the food deliverers. They are mostly from Central America, do not speak English and are dressed in all-black outfits. They are always speeding. Oh yes, I almost forgot: the great majority have no lights as they hurtle down one-way streets the wrong way in order to make their deliveries. The trouble is that I don’t blame them. They’re very hardworking, get paid peanuts and come from countries where the rule of law is considered to be for suckers only. I’ve almost been run over by a couple of them, but I’m on their side. They’re the hardest-working stiffs in the Bagel.
Never mind. My son was once a bike messenger, hence I sympathize with those who use two-wheelers for work. But the arabesque-performing, greasy-haired, bum-clenching megalomaniacs are the ones I daily pray will end up in that sauna-like place below after their early demise.
Which brings me to a different kettle of fish altogether, and a great lunch I recently attended, one that a double silver-star Special Forces old buddy of mine threw to celebrate his eighty-second birthday. Chuck Pfeiffer and I used to hit the clubs rather hard in the good old days, nights rather, and we often ended up mixing it with those who took umbrage at our right-wing remarks — the trouble being that Chuck is very big and looks very hard, whereas the poor little Greek boy “no look so tough.” While getting out of a flashy car he once hired, we were confronted by two hard guys who made fun of my Anderson & Sheppard suit, hinting that I was Chuck’s toy boy. I was getting ready to rumble when Chuck growled: “I’ll rip your hearts out and show them to you before you die…” End of confrontation.
In the land of bull, such talk is taken seriously, hence the ex-Winston Man had a free ride most of the time. He now has trouble walking and no longer drinks, which makes him a very dull boy, but I was glad to see him and he put me at the head of the table where I proceeded to get nice and drunk in the middle of the day. And I was extremely happy to see Julian Schnabel and his beautiful Swedish companion. Julian was very famous back in the 1980s, his paintings going for lotsa moolah, as well as his films. He made some good ones, my favorite being Before Night Falls, about a gay Cuban artist trying to flee Castro’s paradise.
Julian has always been friendly and for this reason I withdrew the contract I had taken out on his son Vito. Vito has pulled more beauties than I’ve thrown punches in the dojo, so about twenty years ago I decided he had to be eliminated. But I couldn’t go through with it, especially as the kid was funny and did not take life seriously. During the lunch I realized that if anyone had to go, it was the father. Julian has been much married, but his latest is a rare beauty of Swedish vintage, and a very nice person to talk to. Vito, incidentally, was the one who took Amber Heard to Koronis island long ago, where she woke up the host George Livanos and complained that the shower wasn’t working, an obvious come-on to my mind and one that he ignored, which had me hitting my head against a large plaster plant in frustration.
Oh well, Alexandra dragged me home telling me it’s embarrassing to be seen with a drunk in the middle of the day. I agree.
This article is taken from The Spectator’s June 2023 World edition.
