- da Brooklyn Stoop

- Brooklyn Memories

Court Street Panties

by Kathleen Daugherty Cantera

    I’m from Brooklyn, yeah, so what? I’m proud of it. I love the place.

    I was raised in Flatbush, moved to Sheepshead Bay, married the love of my life, moved to Bensonhurst, had kids and raised a family there, and now live in Boro Park. I’m a Brooklyn woman who has seen Brooklyn change over the years but the reality is that you have to expect it to change. I’m not always pleased with what I see but no one seems to ask me. Maybe it’s my sex, maybe my age… who knows.

    I’ve lived a full, busy, and exciting life and I’m pleased with it.

    My kids and grandkids all live in Edison, New Jersey, and since I no longer can drive; I see them only when they choose to see me. My kids see me as a person who raised them, set them off on good lives, is not a financial burden, and who is now mature and aging… somewhat gracefully. My grandkids are, by and large, polite with me but they see me as a dinosaur. We don’t share the same music, dance, clothes, language, interests, technology (Twitter versus TV), etc.

    They think that I am just old and never had a life of fun, excitement, or anything like the life they live. When we talk and I attempt to share to smallest parts of my life they always seem to have something more important to do. Maybe it is as all grandchildren are with their grandparents and I’m making too much of the way things have come to be.

    I’ve read stories and books, watched movies and documentaries, about growing up in Brooklyn and the city and have found some of them interesting but some pure fiction.

    Thinking that my life must be more than an epitaph on a gravestone, I’ve decided to capture and share some of my stories.

    The story I first want to share is one of the events that marked my life and has stayed with me as if it were just last week. The event is my very first NYC blackout and how it marked my life.

    Beginning in May, 1963, I worked as a stenographer at Bankers Trust at the corner of Wall and Nassau Streets in the city. It was a job with good hours, benefits and pay. Every day I could count of getting out early enough to freshen-up and get on the BMT going out to the Sheepshead Bay stop on the Brighton line. I usually was able to get the same train each night so I got to recognize some of the people, at least by sight.

    I knew enough not to talk to strangers but Sophia, who worked with me, and a neighbor of hers named Timmy, were my small group of straphangers. Both of them were more outgoing and seemed to know more people on the train than I did. I liked being with them since they made the trip go quicker.

    It was November 9, 1965, cold and dank, and I remember it clearly for what was to happen.

    I got caught working a little late and Sophia was waiting for me by the elevators. It was one of the few times I didn’t get to freshen-up but I knew how long the ride was and I knew I could make it. Sophia, Timmy and I pushed onto the train at the Broad Street station and were packed together. Sophia was telling stories and Timmy was making both of us laugh with comments about the people and what Sophia could have done to make her day even crazier. We weren’t making a scene or nothing but we were laughing pretty loud. We got some looks but it was no big deal.

    We were pretty much through the tunnel under the river into Brooklyn when the train came to a stop. It wasn’t too much out of the ordinary but the train didn’t start moving for a while. Timmy and Sophia kept talking and laughing like nothing had happened. During the time we were stopped the conductor went back and forth to the front of the train but didn’t say anything about what was going on. The passengers were getting annoyed by the delay and many were taking off their coats to cool off a little. The three of us were pretty patient for the first twenty minutes with Timmy making up stories about the train being rerouted to the Bronx and that he though he heard drops of water from the river hitting the top of the subway car.

    It was after thirty minutes that I was regretting not having taken time to freshen-up. While I couldn’t say anything; I guess I began to do a pretty controlled version of the pee-pee dance. Kathy could see that I was uncomfortable but didn’t say anything. I swore then and there that I would always freshen-up and never get on subway again when my last work break was at 3:20 in the afternoon.

    It was another 15 minutes before the conductor came through the car saying that there was a “problem” and that we had to go to the front of the train, climb down to the tracks, and walk to the Court Street station. Almost all the passengers were grumbling but followed directions. Some of the older lady passengers were saying that they wouldn’t walk through the tunnel because of “rats” but later they just seemed happy to be getting off the subway and having a way out of the tunnel.

    Firemen helped Timmy off, then Sophia and then me. I took a few steps after taking Sophia’s hand and then I just stood still, squeezed her hand and shuddered. I wet myself and let it go down my leg and into my boots. Sophia just asked me if I was OK and all I could say was, “I am now.”

    I was mortified and had tears rolling down my face. I felt that everyone could tell. Though they were climbing off a subway, in a dimly lit tunnel, and having to walk to a subway station, I was positive they all knew what I did.

    As we walked, with firemen using flashlights to show the way, I was sure EVERYONE, firemen included, could hear the sloshing or the pee squishing as I walked. The mere thought of it has me blush even now.

    We came out of the subway and the street was packed with cars at a standstill. Most of the businesses were closed but we passed a pizza-by-the-slice place that had a few candles lit in it. Sophia went up and asked the man in the doorway if she could use the bathroom. He first told her that the bathrooms were for customers use only but she said she would buy one slice but it better be “hot”. He looked at her again, hesitated, and then told her to go in but to watch her step. She pulled me in with her.

    Sophia took a Zippo lighter from her purse, lit it, took my hand and led me to the bathroom in the back of the shop. At the door, she handed me the lighter and told me to go first. I left the door ajar so we knew what we were both doing.

    I was a mess. My hose was wet but my skirt was dry. I took off my boots and emptied them into the sink. Off came my hose and them my panties and I jammed them behind the toilet. I used toilet tissue to dry myself and tried to wipe out my boots but was only moderately successful. I did a lot of flushing.

    I washed off my hands and tried to wipe my face with wet tissues; I was weeping again.

    As I came out Sophia told me, “Gimme the lighter and stand guard. I’ll be right out.”

    My hands were shoved deep into my coat pockets and I swore I could smell myself. I stood in silence… the tears were still coming.

    When she came out, she took my hand and asked me if I was OK. I told her I was just shaken by it all. Sophia said to me in a soft whisper, “Did you get your monthly visitor?”

    I looked at where I thought her face should be and said, “No… it’s not that.”

    “What is it then?”

    “I just had to use a bathroom.”

    “Sometimes when I have to push, it comes over me so quick.”

    “Yeah, I know.”

    When we walked out, arm in arm, I suddenly felt how cold it really was. We both put on a very false front of control and confidence. Timmy said he had called home and that his Mother told him about the blackout and that his Dad who worked evenings as a tailor at Martin’s was still downtown. For the next hour Timmy’s Mother relayed messages between Tim’s Dad and Timmy. The plan was for his Dad to meet us at Court Street and Atlantic Avenue. We didn’t know exactly where we would meet but we had a plan.

    As Sophia and I huddled in the doorway of a closed Syrian bakery on Atlantic Avenue, Timmy stood by the curb, looking for his Dad’s very distinctive 1962 green Pontiac Bonneville. Fortunately, the traffic was moving slowly so that Timmy could see in all directions. As we waited Sophia and I took turns using a pay phone to call home to let everyone know that we were OK and that we had a friend that was going to get us home.

    Sophia tried to cheer me up and did pretty good over the hour as we waited. We talked little girl stuff and wondered why Timmy didn’t have to pee. She simply said, “It’s one of the wonders of men”. We laughed.

    When Timmy’s Dad arrived another half hour later, we piled in with Timmy in the front and us in the back. As we got going Sophia said that she was still taken by the night’s events and asked if she could put the he window down a little. Timmy’s Dad glanced at Timmy and said OK. We both put them down an inch, both for the fresh air and rid the car of any lingering odors. We listened to WINS and made some small talk about the blackout but kept pretty quiet.

    Driving home wasn’t easy but Timmy’s Dad knew some ways around that got us up to 4th Avenue and Flatbush Avenues and then he stayed on Flatbush till Avenue U. We could see some areas that had lights on and took it as a good sign.

    As we rode I thought about people still trapped in trains and in blacked out buildings. I thought of the firemen and police men working like crazy to get people out. I thought how lucky we were to have each other. I thought about the pizza parlor owner that would have such a surprise when he next opened for business.

    November 9, 1965, has always stayed with me not just because of the blackout but because I realized how vulnerable we were. It the blackout could happen by accident how much worse could it be if someone planned to cripple the northeast. In 1963, we did not think of terrorists but only of madmen who could bring havoc to our country by small scale acts. It was almost forty years later that we saw what determined madmen were capable of.

    The blackout passed with but mild attention. Two days later we were back to being straphanging commuters with our little jobs.

    A year later Sophia married Artie, a waiter, who she had met at Lundy’s. It lasted one more year and she divorced him and took her daughter with her to Miami to restart her life. I think I saw her twice after she left. We simply lost touch.

    I dated Timmy off and on for a year or so and in 1967 we moved in together… without benefit of clergy. From the start it didn’t seem right. While we had fun and explored each other we never really clicked. I moved home after 6 months to the abject disappoint of Timmy’s mother who was looking for grandchildren.

    In 1969, I met my one true love, Jerry. At the time of the blackout he had worked a Chemical Bank and was evidently one or two subway cars behind us. Sharing the blackout became one of the things we had in common. Till he passed away, we would toast the blackout each year with our own Court Street Panties… 2 ounces Amaretto, 2 ounces Tanqueray, and a dash of lemon juice.

[end] & Copyright by Ken Thompson - 2009.